THE  RIVIERA 

OF  THE 

CORNICHE  ROAD 


SIR  FREDERICK  TREVES 


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THE    RIVIERA    OF    THE 
GORNIGHE    ROAD 


A  RIVIERA   GARDEN. 


L 


The  Riviera  of  the 


Corniche  Road 


/ 


BY 

SIR  FREDERICK  ^REVES,    BART. 

G.C.V.O.,  C.B.,  LL.D. 

Serjeant-Surgeon  to  His  Majesty  the  King  ;  Author  of  "  The 
Other  Side  of  the  Lantern,"  "The  Cradle  of  the  Deep," 
"  The  Country  of  the  Ring  and  the  Book,"  "  High- 
ways and  By-ways  of  Dorset,"  etc.  etc. 


Illustrated  by  <)2  Photographs  by  the  Author 


New  York 
FUNK   AND   WAGNALLS   COMPANY 

1921 


i( 


.^ 


Preface 

This  book  deals  with  that  part  of  the  French  Riviera 
which  is  commanded  by  the  Great  Corniche  Road — the 
part  between  Nice  and  Mentone — together  with  such 
places  as  are  within  easy  reach  of  the  Road. 

I  am  obliged  to  the  proprietors  of  the  Times  for 
permission  to  reprint  an  article  of  mine  contributed 
to  that  journal  in  March,  1920.  It  appears  as 
Chapter   xxxvii. 

I  am  much  indebted  to  Dr.  Hagberg  Wright,  of  the 
London  Library,  for  invaluable  help  in  the  collecting 
of  certain  historical  data. 

FREDERICK  TREVES. 


Monte  Carlo, 

Chinstmas,  1920 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

1.  Early  Days  in  the  Riviera 
i^     2.  The  Corniche  Road     . 

3.  Nice  :  The  Promenade  des  Anglais 

4.  Nice  :  The  Old  Town 

5.  The  Siege  of  Nice 

6.  CiMiEz  and  St.  Pons    . 

7.  How  the  Convent  of  St.  Pons  came  to  an  End 

8.  Vence,  the  Defender  of  the  Faith 

9.  Vence,  the  Town 

10.  Grasse  ..... 

11.  A  Prime  Minister  and  Two  Ladies  of  Grasse 

12.  Cagnes  and  St.  Paul  du  Var 

13.  Cap  Ferrat  and  St.  Hospice 

14.  The  Story  of  Eze 

15.  The  Troubadours  of  Eze 

16.  How  Eze  was  Betrayed 

17.  The  Town  that  Cannot  Forget  . 

18.  The  Harbour  of  Monaco    . 

19.  The  Rock  of  Monaco 

20.  A  Fateful  Christmas  Eve  . 

21.  Charles  the  Seaman    . 

22.  The  Lucien  Murder    . 

vii 


PAGE 


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Contents 


CHAPTER 

23.  How  THE  Spaniards  were  got  rid  of 

24.  A  Matter  of  Etiquette 

25.  The  Monte  Carlo  of  the  Novelist 

26.  Monte  Carlo        .... 

27.  Some  Diversions  of  Monte  Carlo 

28.  An  Old  Roman  Posting  Town     . 

29.  The  Tower  of  Victory 

30.  La  Turbie  of  To-day  .         » 

31.  The  Convent  of  Laghet 

32.  The  City  of  Peter  Pan 

33.  The  Legend  of  Roquebrune 

34.  Some  Memories  of  Roquebrune  . 

35.  Gallows  Hill      .... 

36.  Mentone 

37.  The  First  Visitors  to  the  Riviera 

38.  Castillon 

39.  SOSPEL 

40.  SoSPEL  AND   the   WiLD   BoAR 

41.  Two  Queer  Old  Towns 


PAGE 

176 

181 

187 

191 

195 

206 

214 

224 

231 

239 

248 

252 

259 

265 

273 

281 

286 

294 

297 


Vlll 


List  of  Illustrations 


A  Riviera  Garden 

At  the  Bend  of  the  Road    . 
Nice :  The  Old  Terraces 
Nice:  Rue  du  Senat    . 
Nice:  A  Street  in  the  Old  Town 
Cimiez:  The  Roman  Amphitheatre 
Cimiez:  The  Marble  Cross    . 
Cimiez:  The  Monastery  Well 
Vence:  The  East  Gate  and  Outer  Wall 
Vence:  The  Church  and  Court  of  Bishop's  Palace 
Vence:  Old  House  in  the  Place  Godeau 
Vence:  Rue  de  la  Coste 
Grasse :  The  de  Cabris  House 
Grasse:  The  Cathedral 
Grasse:  The  Place  aux  Aires 
Grasse:  Rue  de  I'Eveche 
Grasse:  Rue  sans  Peur 
Cagnes         .... 
Cagnes :  The  Town  Gate 
Cagnes :  The  Place  Grimaldi 
Cagnes :  The  Castle 
St.  Paul  du  Var 
St.  Paul  du  Var:  The  Entry 
St.  Paul  du  Var:  The  Main  Gate 
St.  Paul  du  Var:  A  Side  Street  . 
St.  Paul  du  Var :  A  Shop  of  the  Mediaeval  Type 

ix 


Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGB 

8 

16 

26 

32 

36 

40 

40 

52 

58 

62 

62 

68 

72 

76 

80 

90 

96 

98 

100 

100 

102 

102 

102 

104 

104 


List  of  Illustrations 


Cap  de  St.  Hospice     .... 
St.  Hospice:  The  Madonna  and  the  Tower 
Villefranche  ..... 

Villefranche :  The  Main  Street 
A  Road  in  Beaulieu 

Eze:  The  Main  Gate 

A  Street  in  Eze  ..... 

Eze :  On  the  Way  to  the  Castle  . 
Eze:  All  that  Remains  of  the  Castle  . 
Cap  d'Ail,  near  Monaco 
Monaco       ...... 

Monaco:  The  Sentry  Tower  on  the  Rampe 
Monaco:  The  Drawbridge  Gate,  1533  . 
Monaco:  The  Palace    .... 

Monaco:  The  Old  Hotel  de  Ville 

Monaco:  The  Cliff  Garden  . 

The  Gorge  between  Monaco  and  Monte  Carlo 

The  Chapel  of  St.  Devote    . 

Monte  Carlo  from  Monaco   . 

Monte  Carlo:  The  Terrace,  Christmas  Day 

Monte  Carlo:  The  Casino  Garden 

The  Roman  Monument,  La  Turbie 

A  Corner  in  La  Turbie 

A  Street  in  La  Turbie 

La  Turbie :  Old  Window  in  the  Rue  Droite 

La  Turbie:  The  Old  Bakehouse   . 

La  Turbie:  La  Portette 

La  Turbie :  The  Fortress  Wall,  showing  the  Roman 

La  Turbie:  The  Nice  Gate  . 

Laghet        ...... 

Laghet :  The  Entrance 
Laghet:  One  of  the  Cloisters 
Roquebrune,  from  near  Bon  Voyage     . 

X 


FACING  PAGH 

108 
108 
110 
112 
114 
120 
124 
134 
138 
138 
144 
148 
156 
156 
162 
168 
172 
178 
184 
192 
196 
202 
206 
210 
216 
216 
224 
226 
Stones  226 
228 
232 
234 
236 
240 


I 


List  of  Illustrations 

PAMNG  PAGB 

Roquebrune:  The  East  Gate 246 

Roquebrune:  The  Place  des  Freres       .         .         .  .246 

Roquebrune:  Showing  the  Castle           ....  252 

Roquebrune:  Rue  de  la  Fontaine          ....  256 

The  Roman  Milestones,  "  603  " 258 

A  Piece  of  the  Old  Roman  Road         ....  258 

The  Roman  Fountain  near  La  Turbie ....  260 

Gallows  Hill 262 

Mont  Justicier :  The  Two  Pillars  of  the  Gallows   .          .  262 

The  Chapel  of  St.  Roch 264 

Mentone:  The  Old  Town 266 

Mentone:  The  East  Bay 268 

Mentone :  Rue  Longue          ......  272 

Mentone:  A  Doorway  in  the  Rue  Longue    .          .          .  274 

A  Side  Street  in  Mentone    ......  276 

A  Side  Street  in  Mentone    ......  278 

Mentone :  Rue  Mattoni         ......  278 

Castillon :  (In  the  snow)       ......  280 

Castillon:  The  Entry  to  the  Town        ....  280 

Castillon :  The  Main  Street 282 

Castillon:  The  Main  Street  and  Church  Door        .         .  284 

Sospel:  The  Old  Bridge 286 

Sospel:  The  River  Front 288 

Sospel:  The  Place  St.  Michel 290 

A  Square  in  Sospel      .......  292 

Sospel :  The  Ruins  of  the  Convent       ....  292 

A  Street  in  Sospel       .......  294 

Sospel:  The  City  Wall  and  Gate  .         .         .         .294 

A  Street  in  Gorbio      .  .  .  .  .         .  .298 

A  Street  in  Gorbio      .......  298 

A  Street  in  St.  Agnes           ......  300 

A  Street  in  St.  Agnes           ......  302 


XI 


THE    RIVIERA    OF    THE 
CORNICHE    ROAD 


EARLY   DAYS   IN   THE  RIVIERA 

THE  early  history  of  this  briUiant  country  is  very 
dim,  as  are  its  shores  and  uplands  when  viewed 
from  an  oncoming  barque  at  the  dawn  of  day. 
The  historian-adventurer  sailing  into  the  past  sees  before 
him  just  such  an  indefinite  country  as  opens  up  before 
the  eye  of  the  mariner.  Hills  and  crags — alone  unchange- 
able— rise  against  the  faint  light  in  the  sky.  The  sound 
of  breakers  on  the  beach  alone  can  tell  where  the  ocean 
ends  and  where  the  land  begins;  while  the  slopes,  the 
valleys  and  the  woods  are  lost  in  one  blank  impenetrable 
shadow. 

As  the  daylight  grows,  or  as  our  knowledge  grows, 
the  forms  of  men  come  into  view,  wild  creatures  armed 
with  clubs  and  stones.  They  will  be  named  Ligurians, 
just  as  the  earlier  folk  of  Britain  were  named  Britons. 
Later  on  less  uncouth  men,  furnished  with  weapons  of 
bronze  or  iron,  can  be  seen  to  land  from  boats  or  to  be 
plodding  along  the  shore  as  if  they  had  journeyed 
far.     They  will  be  called  Phoenicians,  Carthaginians  or 

B  I 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Phocseans  according  to  the  leaning  of  the  writer  who 
deals  with  them.  There  may  be  bartering  on  the  beach, 
there  may  be  fighting  or  pantomimic  love-making ;  but 
in  the  end  those  who  are  better  armed  take  the  place  of 
the  old  dwellers,  and  the  rough  woman  in  her  apron  of 
skins  walks  off  into  the  wood  by  the  side  of  the  man  with 
the  bronze  knife  and  the  beads. 

There  is  little  more  than  this  to  be  seen  through  the 
haze  of  far  distant  time.  The  written  history,  such  as  it 
is,  is  thus  part  fiction,  part  surmise,  for  the  very  small 
element  of  truth  is  based  upon  such  fragments  of  evidence 
as  a  few  dry  bones,  a  few  implements,  a  bracelet,  a 
defence  work,  a  piece  of  pottery. 

The  Ligurians  or  aborigines  formed  themselves,  for 
purposes  of  defence,  into  clans  or  tribes.  They  built 
fortified  camps  as  places  of  refuge.  Relics  of  these  forts 
or  castra  remain,  and  very  remarkable  relics  they  are, 
for  they  show  immense  walls  built  of  blocks  of  unworked 
stone  that  the  modern  wall  builder  may  view  with 
amazement.  Nowhere  are  these  camps  found  in  better 
preservation  than  around  Monte  Carlo. 

In  the  course  of  time  into  this  savage  country,  march- 
ing in  invincible  columns,  came  the  stolid,  orderly  legions 
of  Rome.  They  subdued  the  hordes  of  hillmen,  broke 
up  their  forts,  and  commemorated  the  victory  by  erecting 
a  monument  on  the  crest  of  La  Turbie  which  stands  there 
to  this  day.  The  Romans  brought  with  them  discipline 
and  culture,  and  above  all,  peace.  The  natives,  reassured, 
came  down  from  their  retreats  among  the  heights  and 
established  themselves  in  the  towns  which  were  springing 
up  by  the  edge  of  the  sea.  The  Condamine  of  Monaco, 
for  example,  was  inhabited  during  the  first  century  of 


Early  Days  in  the  Riviera 

the  present  era,  as  is  made  manifest  by  the  rehcs  which 
have  been  found  there. 

With  the  fall  of  the  Roman  Empire  peace  vanished 
and  the  whole  country  lapsed  again  into  barbarism.  It 
was  overrun  from  Marseilles  to  Genoa  by  gangs  of  hearty 
ruffians  whose  sole  preoccupation  was  pillage,  arson  and 
murder.  They  uprooted  all  that  the  Romans  had  estab- 
hshed,  and  left  in  their  fetid  trail  little  more  than  a  waste 
of  burning  huts  and  dead  men. 

These  pernicious  folk  were  called  sometimes  Vandals, 
sometimes  Goths,  sometimes  Burgundians,  and  some- 
times Swabians.  The  gentry,  however,  who  seem  to 
have  been  the  most  persistent  and  the  most  diligent  in 
evil  were  the  Lombards.  They  are  described  as  "  ravish- 
ing the  country  "  for  the  immoderate  period  of  two 
hundred  years,  namely  from  574  to  775.  How  it  came 
about  that  any  inhabitants  were  left  after  this  exhausting 
treatment  the  historian  does  not  explain. 

At  the  end  of  the  eighth  century  there  may  possibly 
have  been  a  few  years'  quiet  along  the  Riviera,  during 
which  time  the  people  would  have  recovered  confidence 
and  become  hopeful  of  the  future.  Now  the  Lombards 
had  always  come  down  upon  them  by  land,  so  they  knew 
in  which  direction  to  look  for  their  troubles,  and,  more- 
over, they  knew  the  Lombards  and  had  a  quite  practical 
experience  of  their  habits.  After  a  lull  in  alarms  and 
in  paroxysms  of  outrage,  and  after  what  may  even  be 
termed  a  few  calm  years,  something  still  more  dreadful 
happened  to  these  dwellers  in  a  fool's  paradise.  Marauders 
began  to  come,  not  by  the  hill  passes,  but  by  sea  and 
to  land  out  of  boats.  They  were  marauders,  too,  of 
a   peculiarly   virulent  type,    compared   with   whom   the 

3 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Lombards  were  as  babes  and  sucklings ;  for  not  only  were 
their  actions  exceptionally  violent  and  their  weapons 
unusually  noxious,  but  they  themselves  were  terrifying 
to  look  at,  for  they  were  nearly  black. 

These  alarming  people  were  the  Saracens,  otherwise 
known  as  the  Moors  or  Arabs.  They  belonged  to  a  great 
race  of  Semitic  origin  which  had  peopled  Syria,  the 
borders  of  the  Red  Sea  and  the  North  of  Africa.  They 
invaded — in  course  of  time — not  only  this  tract  of  coast, 
but  also  Rhodes,  Cyprus,  France,  Spain  and  Italy.  They 
were  by  birth  and  inheritance  wanderers,  fighters  and 
congenital  pirates.  They  spread  terror  wherever  they 
went,  and  their  history  may  be  soberly  described  as 
*'  awful."  They  probably  appeared  at  their  worst  in 
Provence  and  at  their  best  in  Spain,  where  they 
introduced  ordered  government,  science,  literature  and 
commerce,  and  left  behind  them  the  memory  of  elegant 
manners  and  some  of  the  most  graceful  buildings  in  the 
world. 

As  early  as  about  800  the  Saracens  had  made  them- 
selves masters  of  Eze,  La  Turbie  and  Sant'  Agnese ; 
while  by  846  they  seem  to  have  terrorised  the  whole  coast 
from  the  Rhone  to  the  Genoese  Gulf,  and  in  the  first 
half  of  the  tenth  century  to  have  occupied  nearly  every 
sea-town  from  Aries  to  Mentone.  Finally,  in  980,  a  great 
united  effort  was  made  to  drive  the  marauders  out  of 
France.  It  was  successful.  The  leader  of  the  Ligurian 
forces  was  William  of  Marseilles,  first  Count  of  Provence, 
and  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  his  lieutenants 
was  a  noble  Genoese  soldier  by  name  Gibellino  Grimaldi. 
It  is  in  the  person  of  this  knight  that  the  Grimaldi  name 
first  figures  in  the  history  of  the  Ligurian  coast. 

4 


Early  Days  in  the  Riviera 

As  soon  as  the  Saracens  had  departed  the  powers  that 
had  combined  to  drive  them  from  the  country  began  to 
fight  among  themselves.  They  fought  in  a  vague,  con- 
fused, spasmodic  way,  with  infinite  vicissitudes  and  in 
every  available  place,  for  over  five  hundred  years.  The 
siege  of  Nice  by  the  French  in  1543  may  be  conveniently 
taken  as  the  end  of  this  particular  series  of  conflicts. 

It  was  a  period  of  petty  fights  in  which  the  Counts 
of  Provence  were  in  conflict  with  the  rulers  of  Northern 
Italy,  with  the  Duke  of  Milan,  it  may  be,  or  the  Duke 
of  Savoy  or  the  Doge  of  Genoa.  It  was  a  time  when 
town  fought  with  town,  when  Pisa  was  at  war  with  Genoa 
and  Genoa  with  Nice,  when  the  Count  of  Ventimiglia 
would  make  an  onslaught  on  the  Lord  of  Eze  and  the 
ruffian  who  held  Gorbio  would  plan  a  descent  upon  little 
Roquebrune.  This  delectable  part  of  the  continent, 
moreover,  came  within  the  sphere  of  that  almost  intermin- 
able war  which  was  waged  between  the  Guelphs  and  the 
Ghibellines.  In  the  present  area  the  Grimaldi  were  for 
the  Guelphs  and  the  Pope,  and  the  Spinola  for  the  Ghibel- 
lines and  the  Emperor.  The  feud  began  in  the  twelfth 
century  and  lasted  until  the  French  invasion  in  1494. 

This  period  of  five  hundred  years  was  a  time  of 
interest  that  was  dramatic  rather  than  momentous.  So 
far  as  the  South  of  France  was  concerned  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  tracts  of  country  in  Europe  was  the  battle- 
ground for  bands  of  mediaeval  soldiers,  burly,  dare-devil 
men  carrying  fantastic  arms  and  dressed  in  the  most 
picturesque  costumes  the  world  has  seen. 

It  was  a  period  of  romance,  and,  indeed — from  a  scenic 
point  of  view — of  romance  in  its  most  alluring  aspect. 
Here  were  all  the  folk  and  the  incidents  made  famous  by 

5 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

the  writers  of  a  hundred  tales — the  longbowman  in  his 
leather  jerkin,  the  man  in  the  slashed  doublet  sloping  a 
halberd,  the  gay  musketeer,  the  knight  in  armour  and 
plumes,  as  well  as  the  little  walled  town,  the  parley  before 
the  gate,  the  fight  for  the  drawbridge  and  the  dash  up  the 
narrow  street. 

It  was  a  period  when  there  were  cavalcades  on  the 
road,  glittering  with  steel,  with  pennons  and  with  banners, 
when  there  were  ambushes  and  frenzied  flights,  carousing 
of  the  Falstaffian  type  at  inns,  and  dreadful  things  done  in 
dungeons.  It  was  a  time  of  noisy  banquets  in  vaulted 
halls  with  dogs  and  straw  on  the  floor ;  a  time  of  desperate 
rescues,  of  tragic  escapes,  of  fights  on  prison  roofs,  and  of 
a  general  and  brilliant  disorder.  It  was  a  delusive  epoch, 
too,  with  a  pretty  terminology,  when  the  common  hack 
was  a  palfrey,  the  footman  a  varlet,  and  the  young  woman 
a  damosel. 

The  men  in  these  brawling  times  were,  in  general 
terms,  swashbucklers  and  thieves;  but  they  had  some  of 
the  traits  of  crude  gentlemen,  some  rudiments  of  honour, 
some  chivalry  of  an  emotional  type,  and  an  unreliable 
reverence  for  the  pretty  woman. 

It  was  a  time  to  read  about  rather  than  to  live  in;  a 
period  that  owes  its  chief  charm  to  a  safe  distance  and  to 
the  distortion  of  an  artificial  mirage.  In  any  case  one 
cannot  fail  to  realise  that  these  scenes  took  place  in  spots 
where  tramcars  are  now  running,  where  the  char-a-banc 
rumbles  along,  and  where  the  anaemic  youth  and  the 
brazen  damosel  dance  to  the  jazz  music  of  an  American 
band. 

When  the  five  hundred  years  had  come  to  an  end  there 
were  still,  in  this  particular  part  of  the  earth,  wars  and 

6 


Early  Days  in  the  Riviera 

rumours  of  wars  that  ceased  not ;  but  they  were  ordinary 
wars  of  small  interest  save  to  the  student  in  a  history  class, 
for  the  day  of  the  hand-to-hand  combat  and  of  the 
dramatic  fighting  in  streets  had  passed  away. 

So  far  as  our  present  purpose  is  concerned  the  fact 
need  only  be  noted  that  the  spoiled  and  petted  Riviera 
has  been  the  scene  of  almost  continuous  disturbance  and 
bloodshed  for  the  substantial  period  of  some  seventeen 
hundred  years,  and  that  it  has  now  become  a  Garden  of 
Peace,  calmed  by  a  kind  of  agreeable  dream-haunted 
stupor  such  as  may  befall  a  convulsed  man  who  has  been 
put  asleep  by  cocaine. 


,^ 


II 

THE   CORNICHE   ROAD 

IT  is  hardly  necessary  to  call  to  mind  the  fact  that 
there  are  several  Corniche  roads  along  the  Riviera. 
The  term  implies  a  fringing  road,  a  road  that  runs 
along  a  cornice  or  ledge  (French,  Corniche;  Itahan, 
Cornice). 

The  term  .will,  therefore,  be  often  associated  with  a 
coast  road  that  runs  on  the  edge  or  border  of  the  sea  or  on 
a  shelf  above  it. 

There  are  the  Chemin  de  la  Corniche  at  Marseilles 
which  runs  as  far  east  as  the  Prado,  the  Corniche  d'Or 
near  Cannes,  the  three  Corniche  Roads  beyond  Nice,  and 
— inland — the  Corniche  de  Grasse. 

The  bare  term  "The  Corniche  Road**  is,  however, 
generally  understood  to  refer  to  the  greatest  road  of  them 
all.  La  Grande  Corniche. 

Of  all  the  great  roads  in  Europe  it  is  probable  that  La 
Grande  Corniche — .which  runs  from  Nice  eastwards  to- 
wards Italy — is  the  best  known  and  the  most  popular. 
Roads  become  famous  in  many  ways,  some  by  reason  of 
historical  associations,  some  on  account  of  the  heights  they 
reach,  and  others  by  the  engineering  difficulties  they  have 
been  able  to  surmount.  La  Grande  Corniche  can  claim 
none  of  these  distinctions.  It  is  comparatively  a  modern 
road,  it  mounts  to  little  more  than  1,700  feet,  and  it  can- 

8 


AT   THE    BEND   OF   THE   ROAD. 


The  Gorniche  Road 

not  boast  of  any  great  achievement  in  its  making.  It 
passes  by  many  towns  but  it  avoids  them  all,  all  save  one 
little  forgotten  village  outside  whose  walls  it  sweeps  with 
some  disdain. 

It  starts  certainly  from  Nice,  but  it  goes  practically 
nowhere,  since  long  before  Mentone  is  in  view  it  drops 
into  a  quite  common  highway,  and  thus  incontinently 
ends.  It  is  not  even  the  shortest  way  from  point  to  point, 
being,  on  the  contrary,  the  longest.  It  cannot  pretend 
to  be  what  the  Italians  call  a  "master  way,"  since  no 
road  of  any  note  either  enters  it  or  leaves  it. 

In  so  far  as  it  evades  all  towns  it  is  unlike  the  usual 
eat  highway.  It  passes  through  no  cobbled,  wondering 
street;  breaks  into  no  quiet,  fountained  square;  crosses 
no  market-place  alive  with  chattering  folk;  receives  no 
blessing  from  the  shadow  of  a  church.  Nowhere  is  its 
coming  heralded  by  an  avenue  of  obsequious  trees,  it 
forces  its  way  through  no  vaulted  gateway,  it  lingers  by 
no  village  green,  it  knows  not  the  scent  of  a  garden  nor 
the  luscious  green  of  a  cultivated  field.  Neither  the 
farmer's  cart  nor  the  lumbering  diligence  will  be  met  with 
on  this  unamiable  road,  nor  will  its  quiet  be  disturbed  by 
the  patter  of  a  flock  of  sheep  nor  by  a  company  of  merry 
villagers  on  their  way  to  the  fair. 

La  Grande  Corniche  is,  in  fact,  a  modern  military 
road  built  by  the  French  under  Napoleon  I  in  1806.  It 
was  made  with  murderous  intent.  It  was  constructed  to 
carry  arms  and  men,  guns  and  munitions  and  the  imple- 
ments of  war.  It  was  a  road  of  destruction  designed  to 
convey  bloodshed  and  desolation  into  Italy  and  beyond. 
He  who  conceived  it  had  in  his  mind  the  picture  of  a  road 
alive,  from  end  to  end,  with  columns  of  fighting  men 

9 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

marching  eastwards  under  a  cloud  of  angry  dust  with  the 
banner  of  France  in  the  van ;  had  in  his  ears  the  merciless 
tramp  of  ten  thousand  feet,  the  clatter  of  sweating  cavalry, 
the  rumble  of  unending  cannon  wheels.  It  .was  a  picture, 
he  thought,  worthy  of  the  heart-racking  labour  that  the 
making  of  the  road  involved. 

But  yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  the  popularity  of  the  road 
is  readily  to  be  understood.  It  is  cut  out,  as  a  mere 
thread,  upon  the  side  of  a  mountain  range  which  is 
thrown  into  as  many  drooping  folds  as  is  a  vast  curtain 
gathered  up  into  a  fraction  of  its  width.  It  is  never 
monotonous,  never,  indeed,  even  straight.  It  winds  in 
and  out  of  many  a  valley,  it  skirts  many  a  fearful  gorge, 
it  clings  to  the  flank  of  many  a  treacherous  slope.  Here 
it  creeps  beneath  a  jutting  crag,  there  it  mounts  in  the 
sunlight  over  a  radiant  hill  or  dips  into  the  silence  of 
a  rocky  glen. 

It  has  followed  in  its  making  any  level  ledge  that  gave 
a  foothold  to  man  or  beast.  It  has  used  the  goat  track ; 
it  has  used  the  path  of  the  mountaineer;  while  at  one 
point  it  has  taken  to  itself  a  stretch  of  the  ancient  Roman 
road.  It  is  a  daring,  determined  highway,  headstrong 
and  self-confident,  hesitating  before  no  difficulty  and 
daunted  by  no  alarms,  heeding  nothing,  respecting 
nothing,  and  obedient  only  to  the  call  "  onwards  to 
Italy  at  any  cost!  " 

From  its  eyrie  it  looks  down  upon  a  scene  of  amazing 
enchantment,  upon  the  foundations  of  the  everlasting 
hills,  upon  a  sea  ghstening  like  opal,  upon  a  coast  with 
every  fantastic  variation  of  crag  and  cliff,  of  rounded  bay 
and  sparkling  beach,  of  wooded  glen  and  fern-decked, 
murmuring  chine.     Here  are  bright  villas  by  the  water's 

10 


The  Corniche  Road 

edge,  a  white  road  that  wanders  as  aimlessly  along  as  a 
dreaming  child,  a  town  or  two,  and  a  broad  harbour  lined 
with  trees.  Far  away  are  daring  capes,  two  little  islands, 
and  a  line  of  hills  so  faint  as  to  be  almost  unreal.  It 
is  true,  indeed,  as  the  writer  of  a  well-known  guide  book 
has  said,  that  "  the  Corniche  Road  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  roads  in  Europe." 

Moreover,  it  passes  through  a  land  which  is  a  Vanity 
Fair  to  the  frivolous,  a  paradise  to  the  philanderer,  and 
a  garden  of  peace  to  all  who  would  escape  the  turmoil 
of  the  world.  It  is  a  lazy,  careless  country,  free  from 
obtrusive  evidence  of  toil  and  labour,  for  there  are 
neither  works  nor  factories  within  its  confines.  Here 
the  voice  of  the  agitator  is  not  heard,  while  the  roar  of 
political  dispute  falls  upon  the  contented  ear  as  the 
sound  of  a  distant  sea. 

The  Grand  Corniche  is  now  a  road  devoted  to  the 
seeker  after  pleasure.  People  traverse  it,  not  with  the 
object  of  arriving  at  any  particular  destination,  but  for  the 
delight  of  the  road  itself,  of  the  joy  it  gives  to  the  eye  and 
to  the  imagination.  Its  only  traffic  is  what  the  transport 
agent  would  call  "holiday  traffic";  for  when  the  idle 
season  ends  the  highway  is  deserted.  In  earlier  days  there 
would  rumble  along  the  road  the  carriage  and  four  of  the 
traveller  of  great  means ;  then  came  the  humbler  vehicle 
hired  from  the  town ;  then  the  sleek  motor ;  and  finally, 
as  a  sign  of  democratic  progress,  the  char-a-banc,  the 
omnibus,  and  the  motor-brake. 

No  visitor  to  the  Riviera  of  any  self-respect  can  leave 
without  traversing  the  Corniche  Road.  Mark  Twain  says 
that  "  there  are  many  sights  in  the  Bermudas,  but  they  are 
easily  avoided."     This  particular  road  cannot  be  avoided. 

II 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

The  traveller  who  returns  to  his  home  without  having 
"done"  La  Grande  Corniche  may  as  well  leave  Rome 
without  seeing  the  Forum. 

The  most  picturesque  section  of  the  road  is  that 
between  Nice  and  Eze.  Starting  from  Nice  it  winds  up 
along  the  sides  of  Mont  Vinaigrier  and  Mont  Gro;§  which 
here  form  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Paillon  valley.  The 
hills  are  covered  with  pine  and  olive  trees,  vines  and  oaks. 
There  is  soon  attained  a  perfect  view  over  the  whole  town 
of  Nice,  when  it  will  be  seen  how  commanding  is  the  posi- 
tion occupied  by  the  Castle  Hill.  Across  the  valley  are 
Cimiez  and  St.  Pons.  At  the  first  bend,  as  the  height  is 
climbed,  is  a  tablet  to  mark  the  spot  where  two  racing 
motorists  were  killed.  When  the  road  turns  round  the 
northern  end  of  Mont  Gros  a  fine  view  of  the  Paillon 
valley  is  displayed.  This  valley  is  much  more  attractive 
at  a  distance  than  near  at  hand.  By  the  river's  bank  on 
one  side  is  St.  Andre  with  its  seventeenth-century 
chateau ;  while  on  the  other  side  is  the  Roman  station  of 
La  Trinite-Victor,  a  little  place  of  a  few  houses  and  a 
church,  where  the  old  Roman  road  comes  down  from 
Laghet.  High  up  above  St.  Andre,  at  the  height  of 
nearly  1,000  feet,  is  the  curious  village  of  Falicon. 
Far  away,  at  a  distance  of  some  seven  miles,  is  Peille,  a 
patch  of  grey  in  a  cup  among  the  mountains.  Northwards 
the  Paillon  river  is  lost  to  view  at  Drap. 

When  the  road  has  skirted  the  eastern  side  of  Mont 
Vinaigrier  the  Col  des  Quatre  Chemins  is  reached  (1,131 
feet).  Here  are  an  inn  and  a  ridiculous  monument  to 
General  Massena.  The  hills  that  border  on  the  road  are 
now  bleak  and  bare.  Just  beyond  the  col  is  a  fascinating 
view   of   Cap   Ferrat   and   Cap   de   St.    Hospice.     The 

12 


The  Corniche  Road 

peninsula  is  spread  out  upon  the  sea  like  a  model  in  dark 
green  wax  on  a  sheet  of  blue.  The  road  now  skirts  the 
bare  Monts  Pacanaglia  and  Fourche  and  reaches  the  Col 
d'Eze  (1,694  feet),  where  is  unfolded  the  grandest 
panorama  that  the  Corniche  can  provide.  The  coast  can 
be  followed  from  the  Tete  de  Chien  to  St.  Tropez.  The 
wizened  town  of  Eze  comes  into  sight,  and  below  it  is  the 
beautiful  Bay  of  Eze,  with  the  Pointe  de  Cabuel  stretched 
out  at  the  foot  of  Le  Sueil. 

The  view  inland  over  the  Alps  and  far  away  to  the 
snows  is  superb.  To  the  left  are  Vence  and  Les  Gorges 
du  Loup,  together  with  the  town  of  St.  Jeannet  placed  at 
the  foot  of  that  mighty  precipice,  the  Baou  de  St.  Jeannet, 
which  attaining,  as  it  does,  a  height  of  2,736  feet  is  the 
great  landmark  of  the  country  round.  Almost  facing  the 
spectator  are  Mont  Chauve  de  Tourette  (2,365  feet)  and 
Mont  Macaron.  The  former  is  to  be  recognised  by  the 
fort  on  its  summit.  They  are  distant  about  five  miles. 
To  the  right  is  Mont  Agel  with  its  famiHar  scar  of  bare 
stones.  Some  two  kilometres  beyond  Eze  the  Capitaine 
is  reached,  the  point  at  which  the  Corniche  Road  attains 
its  greatest  height,  that  of  1,777  feet. 

The  track  now  very  slowly  descends.  When  La 
Turbie  (1,574  feet)  is  passed  a  splendid  view  is  opened  up 
of  Monaco  and  Monte  Carlo,  of  the  Pointe  de  la  Vieille, 
of  Cap  Martin,  and  of  the  coast  of  Italy  as  far  as 
Bordighera.  Roquebrune — which  can  be  seen  at  its  best 
from  the  Corniche — is  passed  below  the  town,  and  almost 
at  once  the  road  joins  the  sober  highway  that  leads  to 
Mentone  and  ends  its  romantic  career  on  a  tram-line. 


13 


Ill 

NICE  :    THE   PROMENADE   DES   ANGLAIS 

NICE  is  a  somewhat  gross,  modern  seaside  town 
which  is  beautiful  in  its  situation  but  in  httle  else. 
It  lies  at  the  mouth  of  a  majestic  valley  and  on 
the  shores  of  a  generous  bay,  open  to  the  sun,  but  exposed 
at  the  same  time  to  every  villainous  wind  that  blows.  It 
is  an  unimaginative  town  with  most  excellent  shops  and  a 
complete,  if  noisy,  tramway  system.  It  is  crowded,  and 
apparently  for  that  reason  popular.  It  is  proud  of  its  fine 
sea  front  and  of  the  bright  and  ambitious  buildings  which 
are  ranged  there,  as  if  for  inspection  and  to  show  Nice  at 
its  best. 

The  body  of  the  town  is  made  up  of  a  vast  collection 
of  houses  and  streets  of  a  standard  French  pattern  and 
little  individuality.  Viewed  from  any  one  of  the  heights 
that  rise  above  it,  Nice  is  picturesque  and  makes  a 
glorious,  widely  diffused  display  of  colour;  but  as  it  is 
approached  the  charm  diminishes,  the  dull  suburbs  damp 
enthusiasm,  and  the  bustling,  noisy,  central  streets  com- 
plete the  disillusion.  On  its  outskirts  is  a  crescent  of 
pretty  villas  and  luxuriant  gardens  which  encircle  it  as  a 
garland  may  surround  a  plain,  prosaic  face.  The  country 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  this  capital  of  the  Alpes  Mari- 
times  is  singularly  charming,  and,  therefore,  the  abiding 
desire  of  the  visitor  to  Nice  is  to  get  out  of  it. 

14 


Nice :  The  Promenade  des  Anglais 

Along  the  sea-front  is  the  much-photographed 
Promenade  des  Anglais  with  its  line  of  palm  trees.  It 
is  marked  with  a  star  and  with  capital  letters  in  the  guide 
books  and  it  is  quite  worthy  of  this  distinction.  It 
appears  to  have  been  founded  just  one  hundred  years  ago 
to  provide  work  for  the  unemployed.  To  judge  from  the 
crowd  that  frequents  it  it  is  still  the  Promenade  of  the 
Unemployed. 

The  Promenade  has  great  dignity.  It  is  spacious  and, 
above  all,  it  is  simple.  As  a  promenade  it  is  indeed  ideal. 
It  is  free  from  the  robust  vulgarity,  the  intrusions,  and  the 
restlessness  of  the  parade  in  an  English  popular  seaside 
resort.  There  are  no  penny-in-the-slot  machines,  no 
bathing-houses  daubed  over  with  advertisements,  no 
minstrels,  no  entertainments  on  the  beach,  no  impor- 
tunate boatmen,  no  persistent  photographers.  If  it  gives 
the  French  the  idea  that  it  is  a  model  of  a  promenade  of 
the  English,  it  will  lead  to  an  awakening  when  the  French- 
man visits  certain  much-frequented  seaside  towns  in 
England. 

A  little  pier — the  Jetee-Promenade — steps  off  from 
the  main  parade.  On  it  is  a  casino  which  provides  varied 
and  excellent  attractions.  The  building  belongs  to  the 
Bank  Holiday  Period  of  architecture  and  is  accepted  with- 
out demur  as  exactly  the  type  of  structure  that  a  joy- 
dispensing  pier  should  produce.  It  is,  however,  rather 
disturbing  to  learn  that  this  fragile  casino,  with  its  music- 
hall  and  its  refreshment  bars,  is  a  copy  of  St.  Sophia  in 
Constantinople.  That  mosque  is  one  of  the  most  im- 
pressive and  most  inspiring  ecclesiastical  edifices  in  the 
world,  as  well  as  one  of  the  most  stupendous.  Those  who 
know  Constantinople  and  have  been  struck  by  the  lordly 

15 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

magnificence  of  its  great  religious  fane  will  turn  from  this 
dreadful  travesty  with  horror.  It  is  a  burlesque  that 
hurts,  as  would  the  "Hallelujah  Chorus"  played  on  a 
penny  whistle. 

It  is  along  the  Promenade  des  Anglais — the  Pro- 
menade of  the  Unemployed — that  the  great  event  of  the 
Carnival  of  Nice,  the  Battle  of  Flowers,  is  held  every  year. 
The  Carnival  began  probably  as  the  modest  festa  of  a 
village  community,  a  picturesque  expression  of  the  religion 
of  the  time,  a  reverent  homage  to  the  country  and  to  the 
flowers  that  made  it  beautiful.  It  seems  to  have  been 
always  associated  with  flowers  and  one  can  imagine  the 
passing  by  of  a  procession  of  boys  and  girls  with  their 
elders,  all  decked  with  flowers,  as  a  spectacle  both  gracious 
and  beautiful. 

It  has  developed  now  with  the  advancing  ugliness  of 
the  times.  The  simple  maiden,  clad  in  white,  with  her 
garland  of  wild  flowers,  has  grown  into  a  coarse,  unseemly 
monster,  blatant  and  indecorous,  surrounded  by  a  raucous 
mob  carrying  along  with  it  the  dust  of  a  cyclone.  The 
humble  village  fete  has  become  a  means  of  making  money 
and  an  opportunity  for  clamour,  licence  and  display. 
Reverence  of  any  kind  or  for  anything  is  not  a  notable 
attribute  of  the  modern  mind ;  while  with  the  advance  of 
a  pushing  democracy  gentle  manners  inevitably  fade 
away. 

It  is  pitiable  that  the  Carnival  has  to  do  with  flowers 

and  that  it  is  through  them  that  it  seeks  to  give  expression 

to  its  loud  and  flamboyant  taste.    It  is  sad  to  see  flowers 

put  to  base  and  meretricious  uses,  treated  as  mere  dabs  of 

paint,  forced  into  unwonted  forms,  made  up  as  anchors  or 

crowns  and  mangled  in  millions.     The  festival  is  not  so 

i6 


U 
< 

oi 

a: 
a 

H 
Q 

O 

m 
X 
H 


u 


Nice :  The  Promenade  des  Anglais 

much  a  battle  of  flowers  as  a  Massacre  of  Flowers,  a 
veritable  St.  Bartholomew's  Day  for  buds  and  blossoms. 

The  author  of  a  French  guide  book  suggests  that  the 
visitor  should  attend  the  Carnival  "  at  least  once.*'  He 
makes  this  proposal  with  evident  diffidence.  He  owns 
that  the  affair  is  one  of  animation  incroyahhj  that  the 
streets  are  occupied  by  une  cohue  de  gens  en  delire  and 
recommends  the  pleasure  seeker  to  carry  no  valuables,  to 
wear  no  clothes  that  are  capable  of  being  spoiled,  no  hat 
that  would  suffer  from  being  bashed  in,  and  to  remember 
always  that  the  dust  is  enorme. 

Those  who  like  a  rollicking  crowd,  hustling  through 
streets  a-flutter  with  a  thousand  flags  and  hung  with 
festoons  by  the  kilometre,  and  those  who  have  a  passion 
for  throwing  things  at  other  people  might  go  even  more 
than  once.  They  will  see  in  the  procession  much  that  is 
ludicrous,  grotesque  and  puerile,  an  exaggerated  combina- 
tion of  a  circus  car  parade  and  a  native  war  dance,  as  well 
as  a  display  of  misapplied  decoration  of  extreme  ingenuity. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  flower  lover  should  escape  to 
the  mountains  and  hide  until  the  days  of  the  Carnival  are 
over,  and  with  him  might  go  any  who  would  prefer  a 
chaplet  of  violets  on  the  head  of  a  girl  to  a  laundry  basket 
full  of  peonies  on  the  bonnet  of  a  motor. 

On  that  side  of  the  old  town  which  borders  upon  the 

sea  are  relics  which  illustrate  the  more  frivolous  mood  of 

Nice  as  it  was  expressed  before  the  building   of  the 

Promenade   des   Anglais.     These   relics   show   in   what 

manner  the  visitor  to  Nice  in  those  far  days  sought  joy 

in  Hfe.     Parallel  to  the  beach  is  the  Cours  Saleya,  a  long, 

narrow,  open  space  shaded  by  trees.    It  was  at  one  time 

a  fashionable  promenade,  comparable  to  the  Pantiles  at 
c  17 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Tunbridge  Wells.  It  is  now  a  flower  and  vegetable 
market.  On  the  ocean  side  of  this  Cours  are  two  lines  of 
shops,  very  humble  and  very  low.  The  roofs  of  these 
squat  houses  are  level  and  continuous  and  so  form  two 
terraces  running  side  by  side  and  extending  for  a  distance 
of  800  feet. 

These  are  the  famous  Terrasses  where  the  beaus  and 
the  beauties  of  Nice  promenaded,  simpered,  curtsied  or 
bowed,  and  when  this  walk  by  the  shore  was  vowed  to  be 
"  monstrous  fine,  egad."  ^  The  terraces  are  now  deserted, 
are  paved  with  vulgar  asphalt  and  edged  by  a  disorderly 
row  of  tin  chimneys.  On  one  side,  however,  of  this  once 
crowded  and  fashionable  walk  are  a  number  of  stone 
benches,  on  which  the  ladies  sat,  received  their  friends, 
and  displayed  their  Paris  frocks.  The  terrace  is  as  un- 
inviting as  a  laundry  drying  ground  and  these  grey, 
melancholy  benches  alone  recall  the  fact  that  the  place 
once  rippled  with  colour  and  sparkled  .with  life  as  if  it 
were  the  enclosure  at  Ascot. 

1  The  first  of  these  terraces  was  completed  in  1780  and  the  second  one  in 
1844. 

\ 


i8 


IV 

NICE  :    THE   OLD   TOWN 

LOOKING  down  upon  the  city  from  Mont  Boron  it  is 
easy  to  distinguish  Nice  the  Illustrious  from  Nice 
the  Parvenu.  There  is  by  the  sea  an  isolated  green 
hill  with  precipitous  flanks.  This  is  the  height  upon  which 
once  stood  the  ancient  citadel.  On  one  side  is  a  natural 
harbour — the  old  port — while  on  the  other  side  is  a  jumble 
of  weather-stained  roofs  and  narrow  lanes  which  represent 
the  old  town.  The  port,  the  castle  hill,  with  the  little 
cluster  of  houses  at  its  foot,  form  the  real  Nice,  the  Nice 
of  history. 

Radiating  from  this  modest  centre,  like  the  petals  of  a 
sunflower  spreading  from  its  small  brown  disc,  are  the 
long,  straight  streets,  the  yellow  and  white  houses  and 
the  red  roofs  of  modern  Nice.  This  new  town  appears 
from  afar  as  an  immense  expanse  of  bright  biscuit-yellow 
spread  between  the  blue  of  the  bay  and  the  deep  green  of 
the  uplands.  It  presents  certain  abrupt  excrescences  on 
its  surface,  like  isolated  warts  on  a  pale  face.  These  are 
the  famous  hotels.  This  city  of  to-day  is  of  little  interest. 
It  commends  itself  merely  as  a  very  modern  and  very 
prosperous  seaside  resort.  Within  the  narrow  circuit  of 
the  old  town,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  much  that  is 
worthy  to  be  seen  and  to  be  pondered  over. 

It  is  said  that  Nice  was  founded  by  the  Phocaeans  about 

19 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

the  year  350  B.C.,  and  that  the  name  of  the  place,  Nicaea, 
the  city  of  victory,  records  the  victory  of  these  very  obscure 
people  over  the  still  more  obscure  Ligurians.  The 
Romans  paid  little  heed  to  Nice.  They  passed  it  by  and 
founded  their  own  city,  Cemenelum  (now  Cimiez),  on 
higher  ground  away  from  the  sea.  Nice  was  then  merely 
the  port,  the  poor  suburb,  the  fishers'  town.  After  Cimiez 
came  to  an  end  Nice  began  to  grow  and  flourish.  It  was, 
in  the  natural  course  of  events,  duly  sacked  or  burned  by 
barbarous  hordes  and  by  Saracens,  and  was  besieged  as 
soon  as  it  had  walls  and  was  besiegable.  It  took  part  in 
the  local  wars,  now  on  this  side,  now  on  that.  It  had,  in 
common  with  nearly  every  town  in  Europe,  its  periods  of 
pestilence  and  its  years  of  famine. 

In  the  thirteenth  century  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
Counts  of  Provence,  and  at  the  end  of  the  fourteenth 
century  it  came  under  the  protection  of  the  Dukes  of 
Savoy.  Like  many  a  worthier  place  it  was  shifted  to  and 
fro  like  a  pawn  on  a  chess-board.  It  had  for  years  a  strong 
navy  and  the  reputation  of  being  a  terror  to  the  Barbary 
pirates.  These  tiresome  men  from  Barbary  interfered 
with  the  pursuits  of  Nice,  which  consisted  largely  of 
robbery  on  the  high  seas.  Nice  did  not  object  to  the 
Barbary  men  as  pirates  but  as  poachers  on  the  Nice 
grounds.  The  picture  drawn  by  one  writer  who  repre- 
sents Nice  in  the  guise  of  an  indignant  moralist  repressing 
piracy  because  of  its  wickedness,  may  be  compared  with 
the  conception  of  Satan  rebuking  sin.  In  1250  Charles 
of  Anjou,  Prince  of  Provence,  built  a  naval  arsenal  at 
Nice.  It  occupied  the  area  now  covered  by  the  Cours 
Saleya  but  was  entirely  swept  away  by  a  storm  in  1516. 

In  1543  Nice — then  a  town  of  Savoy — was  attacked  by 

20 


Nice :   The  Old  Town 

the  French  and  sustained  a  very  memorable  siege,  which 
is  dealt  with  in  the  chapter  which  follows.  After  this  it 
became  quite  a  habit  with  the  French  to  besiege  Nice ;  for 
they  set  upon  it,  ,with  varying  success,  in  1600,  again  in 
1691,  in  1706,  and  again  in  1744.  Finally,  after  changes 
of  ownership  too  complex  to  mention,  Nice  was  annexed 
to  France,  together  with  Savoy,  in  the  year  1860. 

In  Bosio's  interesting  work  ^  there  is  a  plan  of  the  city 
of  Nice  pubUshed  in  1610.  Although  bearing  the  date 
named  it  represents  the  disposition  of  the  city  as  it  existed 
at  a  much  earlier  period.  It  shows  that  the  town  was 
situated  on  the  left  or  east  bank  of  the  Paillon  and  that  it 
was  divided  into  two  parts,  the  High  Town  and  the  Low 
Town.  The  former  occupied  the  summit  of  the  Castle 
Hill,  was  strongly  fortified  and  surrounded  by  substantial 
walls.  On  this  plateau  were  the  castle  of  the  governor, 
the  cathedral,  the  bishop's  palace,  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and 
the  residences  of  certain  nobles.  The  Low  Town,  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  was  occupied  by  the  houses  and  shops  of 
merchants,  by  private  residences,  and  the  humbler  dwell- 
ings of  sailors,  artisans  and  poor  folk.  In  the  earliest  days 
the  High  Town,  or  Haute  Ville,  alone  existed ;  for  Nice 
was  then  a  settlement  on  an  isolated  hill  as  difficult  of 
access  as  Monaco.  In  the  fifteenth  century  the  castle  was 
represented  only  by  the  old  keep  or  donjon,  a  structure,  no 
doubt,  massive  enough  but  not  adapted  for  other  than  a 
small  garrison.  It  was  Nicode  de  Menthon  who  enlarged 
the  fortress  of  Nice  and  greatly  increased  the  defences  of 
the  town  during  the  century  named. 

As  years  progressed  the  miUtary  needs  of  the  time 
caused  the  High  Town,  as  a  place  of  habitation,  to  cease  to 

^  "  La  Province  des  Alpes  Maritimes,"  1902. 
21 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

exist ;  for  the  whole  of  the  top  of  the  hill  was  given  up  to 
fortifications,  bastions,  gun  emplaeements,  magazines, 
armouries  and  barracks.  It  is  said  by  Bosio  that  the 
private  houses  and  public  buildings  within  the  walls  of  the 
High  Town  were  abandoned  in  1518  to  be  replaced  by  the 
miUtary  works  just  named.  The  whole  of  these  works 
were  finally  levelled  to  the  ground  in  the  year  1706  by 
order  of  Louis  XIV. 

The  Low  Town,  la  Ville  Basse,  was  bounded  on  the 
south  by  the  sea,  on  the  east  by  the  Castle  Hill,  and  on  the 
west  by  a  line  running  from  the  shore  to  the  Paillon  and 
roughly  represented  in  position  and  direction  by  the  pre- 
sent Rue  de  la  Terrasse.  To  the  north  the  town  extended 
as  far  as  the  Boulevard  du  Pont  Vieux.  The  town  was 
surrounded  by  ramparts  and  bastions.  On  the  ruins  of  the 
bastions  Sincaire  and  Pai'roliera  the  Place  Victor^  (now 
the  Place  Garibaldi)  was  constructed  in  1780.  The  posi- 
tion of  the  two  bastions  on  the  north  is  indicated  roughly 
by  the  present  Rue  Sincaire  and  Rue  Pairolhere.  On  one 
side  of  the  Rue  Sincaire  there  still  stands,  against  the  flank 
of  the  hill,  a  solid  and  lofty  mass  of  masonry  which  is  a 
relic  of  the  defences  of  old  days. 

There  were  four  gates  to  the  old  town,  Porte  de  la 
Marine,  Porte  St.  Eloi,  Porte  St.  Antoine,  and  the 
Pairoliera  Gate.  The  St.  Eloi  and  the  Pai'roliera  gates 
were  broken  down  during  the  great  siege  of  1543,  and  the 
others  have  since  been  cleared  away.  Of  these  various 
gates  that  of  St.  Antoine  was  the  most  important.  It 
was  at  this  gate  that  criminals  were  pilloried.  A  faint 
trace  of  the  old  walls  is  still  to  be  seen  near  the  end  of  the 
Fish  Market. 

^  So  named  after  King  Victor  Amadeus  III  of  Sardinia. 

22 


Nice :  The  Old  Town 

The  Bellanda  Tower  was  built  in  1517  by  de  Belle- 
garde,  the  then  Governor  of  Nice.  It  served  to  protect 
the  city  from  the  sea.  The  tower  now  exists  as  a  low 
round  work  which  has  been  incorporated  in  the  grounds  of 
an  hotel  and  converted  into  a  "belvedere."  It  might, 
however,  be  readily  mistaken  for  a  stone  water-tank. 
There  was  another  tower,  called  the  Malavicina,  which  was 
constructed  to  defend  the  town  upon  the  land  side ;  but  of 
this  erection  no  trace  remains.  A  little  suburb,  or  small 
borough,  existed  just  outside  the  old  town  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river.  It  was  called  St.  Jean  Baptiste,  and  was 
connected  with  the  town  by  a  bridge  in  front  of  the  St. 
Antoine  Gate.  Its  position  is  indicated  by  the  present 
Quai  St.  Jean  Baptiste. 

The  old  town  of  Nice  is  small  and  well  circumscribed. 
It  occupies  a  damp  and  dingy  corner  at  the  foot  of  the 
Castle  Hill.  It  seems  as  if  it  had  been  pushed  into  this 
corner  by  the  over-assertive  new  town.  Its  lanes  are  so 
compressed  and  its  houses,  by  comparison,  so  tall  that  it 
gives  the  idea  of  having  been  squeezed  and  one  may 
imagine  that  with  a  little  more  force  the  houses  on  the  two 
sides  of  a  street  would  touch.  It  is  traversed  from  end  to 
end  by  an  alley  called  the  Rue  Droite.  This  was  the 
Oxford  Street  of  the  ancient  city.  A  series  of  narrower 
lanes  cross  the  Rue  Droite ;  those  on  one  side  mount  up- 
hill towards  the  castle  rock,  those  on  the  other  incline 
towards  the  river. 

The  lanes  are  dark,  dirty  and  dissolute-looking.  The 
town  is  such  a  one  as  Gustave  Dore  loved  to  depict  or  such 
as  would  be  fitting  to  the  tales  of  Rabelais.  One  hardly 
expects  to  find  it  peopled  by  modern  mechanics,  tram  con- 
ductors, newspaper  boys  and  honest  housewives ;  nor  do 

23 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

electric  lights  seem  to  be  in  keeping  with  the  place.  Its 
furtive  ways  would  be  better  suited  to  men  in  cloaks  and 
slouched  hats  carrying  rapiers,  and  at  night  to  muffled 
folk  groping  about  with  lanterns.  One  expects  rather  to 
see  quaint  signboards  swinging  over  shops  and  women 
with  strange  headgear  looking  out  of  lattice  windows.  In 
the  place  of  all  this  is  modern  respectability — the  bowler 
hat,  the  stiff  collar  and  the  gramophone. 

The  only  thing  that  has  not  changed  is  the  smell.  It 
may  be  fainter  than  it  was,  but  it  must  be  centuries  old. 
It  is  a  complex  smell — a  mingling  of  cheese  and  stale  wine, 
of  salt  fish  and  bad  health,  a  mouldy  and  melancholy  smell 
that  is  hard  to  bear  even  though  it  be  so  very  old.  The 
ancient  practice  of  throwing  all  refuse  into  the  street  has 
drawbacks,  but  it  at  least  lacks  the  insincere  delicacy  of 
the  modern  dustbin. 

Strange  and  interesting  industries  are  carried  on  in 
doorways  and  on  the  footpath.  Intimate  affairs  of 
domestic  life  are  pursued  with  unblushing  frankness  in 
the  open  and  with  a  singular  absence  of  restraint.  Each 
street,  besides  being  a  public  way,  is  also  a  laundry, 
a  play-room  for  children  and  a  fowl  run. 

The  houses  are  of  no  particular  interest,  for,  with  a 
few  exceptions,  they  have  been  monotonously  modernised. 
The  lanes  are  so  pinched  that  the  dwellings  are  hard  to  see 
as  a  whole.  If  the  visitor  throws  back  his  head  and  looks 
in  the  direction  in  which  he  believes  the  sky  to  be,  he  will 
be  aware  of  dingy  walls  in  blurred  tints  of  pink  or  yellow, 
grey  or  blup  with  green  sun-shutters  which  are  swinging 
open  at  all  angles.  From  any  one  of  the  windows  may 
protrude  a  mattress — like  a  white  or  red  tongue — or  a 
pole  may  appear  from  which  hang  clothes  to  dry,  or,  more 

24 


Nice :  The  Old  Town 

commonly  still,  a  female  head  will  project.  Women  talk 
to  one  another  from  windows  all  day  long.  Indeed,  social 
intercourse  in  old  Nice  is  largely  conducted  from  windows. 
If  one  looks  along  a  lane,  these  dark  heads  projecting  at 
various  levels  from  the  houses  are  like  hobnails  on  the  sole 
of  a  boot.  The  sun-shutters,  it  may  be  explained,  are  not 
for  the  purpose  of  keeping  out  the  sun,  but  serve  as  a 
protection  from  the  far  more  piercing  ray  of  the 
neighbour's  eye. 

A  picturesque  street  is  the  Rue  du  Malonat.  It 
mounts  up  to  the  foot  of  the  Castle  Hill  by  wide,  low  steps 
hke  those  on  a  mule  path.  Poor  as  the  street  may  be, 
there  is  in  it  an  old  stone  doorway,  finely  carved,  which  is 
of  no  little  dignity.  At  the  bottom  of  the  lane  is  a  corner 
house  with  three  windows  furnished  with  grilles.  This  is 
said  to  have  been  at  one  time  the  residence  of  the  Governor 
of  Nice.  The  house  in  the  Rue  de  la  Prefecture  (No.  20) 
where  Paganini  died  is  featureless  but  for  its  old  stone 
entry,  and  its  ground  floor  has  become  a  shop  ^here 
knitted  goods  are  sold.^ 

In  the  Rue  Droite  (No.  15)  is  an  amazing  house  which 
one  would  never  expect  to  find  in  a  mean  street.  It  is  the 
palace  of  the  great  Lascaris  family.  Theodore  Lascaris, 
the  founder  of  the  family,  is  said  to  have  been  driven  from 
his  Byzantine  throne  in  1261  and  to  have  taken  refuge  in 
Nice.  There  he  built  himself  a  palace.  It  could  not  have 
been  erected  in  the  Rue  Droite,  as  so  many  writers  repeat, 
since  the  Lower  Town  as  a  retreat  for  ex-emperors,  had 
no  existence  at  this  period.  The  descendants  of  the  exile, 
however,  continued  to  live  in  Nice  for  some  centuries,  and 

*  The  strange  wanderings  ol  Paganini  after  death  are  dealt  with  in  the  account 
of  Villefranche  (page  114) 

25 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

the  present  building  dates,  with  little  doubt,  from  the  early 
part  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

The  street  is  so  narrow  that  it  is  difficult  to  appreciate 
the  fine  facade  of  this  palace  ;  but  by  assuming  the  attitude 
of  a  star-gazer  it  is  possible  to  see  that  the  great  house  of 
four  stories  would  look  illustrious  even  in  Piccadilly.  It 
has  a  very  finely  carved  stone  doorway  which  leads  into  a 
vaulted  hall.  In  the  road  outside  the  door  are  heaps  of 
vegetable  refuse,  a  pyramid  of  mouldy  lemons  and  a  pile 
of  pea  husks.  From  the  upper  windows  hang  bedding 
and  clothes  to  dry.  It  is  quite  evident  that  the  exposed 
garments  do  not  belong  to  the  family  of  an  ex-emperor. 
On  the  main  floor,  or  piano  nohile,  are  seven  large  and 
ornate  windows,  each  provided  with  a  balcony. 

From  the  hall  a  stone  staircase  ascends  in  many  flights. 
It  has  a  vaulted  ceiling,  supported  by  large  stone  columns. 
On  the  wall  are  niches  containing  busts  of  indefinite  men 
and  some  elaborate  work  in  plaster.  The  staircase  on  one 
side  is  open  to  a  well  all  the  way  and  so  the  lights  and 
shadows  that  cross  it  are  very  fascinating.  Still  more 
fascinating  is  it  to  recall  for  a  moment  the  people  who  have 
passed  up  and  down  the  stair  and  upon  whom  these  Hghts 
and  shadows  have  fallen  during  the  last  three  hundred 
years.  Among  them  would  be  the  old  count  on  his  way 
to  the  justice  room,  the  faltering  bride  whose  hand  has 
rested  on  this  very  balustrade,  the  tired  child  crawling 
up  to  bed  with  a  frightened  glance  at  the  fearsome  busts 
upon  the  wall.^ 

The  rooms  on  the  piano  7iohile  have  domed  ceilings, 
which  are  either  covered  with  frescoes  or  are  richly  orna- 

*  A  good  photograph  of  this  staircase  will  be  found  in  Mr.  Loveland's 
"  Romance  of  Nice,"  page  146. 

26 


NICE:    RUE   DU   SENAT. 


Nice :  The  Old  Town 

mented  by  plaster  work.  There  is  a  great  display  on  the 
walls  of  gilt  panelling  and  bold  mouldings.  The  rooms 
are  dark  and  empty  and  so  dirty  that  they  have  apparently 
not  been  cleaned  since  the  Lascaris  family  took  their 
departure.  Apart  from  the  filth  and  the  neglect  the  place 
provides  a  vivid  realisation  of  the  town  house  of  a 
nobleman  of  Nice  in  the  olden  days. 

A  stroll  through  the  town  will  reveal  many  remin- 
iscences of  the  past,  which,  although  trivial  enough,  are 
still  very  pleasant  to  come  upon  amidst  squalid  surround- 
ings. For  instance  over  the  doorway  of  a  house  in  the 
Rue  Centrale  are  carved,  in  a  very  boyish  fashion,  the 
letters  I.H.S.  with  beneath  them  the  sacred  heart,  the 
date  1648  and  the  initials  of  the  owner  of  the  building. 
Then  again  in  the  Rue  Droite  (No.  1),  high  up  on  the 
plain,  deadly-modern  wall  of  a  wine-shop,  is  one  very 
exquisite  little  window  whose  three  arches  are  supported 
by  two  graceful  columns.  It  is  as  unexpected  as  a  plaque 
by  Delia  Robbia  on  the  outside  of  a  gasometer. 

There  are  several  churches  in  the  old  town  but  they 
cannot  claim  to  be  notable.  The  cathedral  of  Sainte 
Reparate  stands  in  an  obscure  and  meagre  square.  It 
became  a  cathedral  in  1531  but  was  reconstructed  in  1737 
and  its  interior  "  restored"  in  1901.  Outside  it  is  quite 
mediocre,  but  within  it  is  so  ablaze  with  crude  colours,  so 
laden  with  extravagant  and  restless  ornament,  so  profuse 
in  its  fussy  and  irritating  decoration  that  it  is  not,  in  any 
sense,  a  sanctuary  of  peace.  The  old  town  hall  of  Nice  in 
the  Place  St.  Francois  is  a  small,  simple  building  in  the 
Renaissance  style  which  can  claim  to  be  worthy  of  the 
Nice  that  was. 

There  are  two  objects  outside  the  old  town  which  the 

27 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

visitor  will  assuredly  see — the  Pont  Vieux  and  the  Croix 
de  Marbre.  The  former  which  dates  from  1531  is  a 
weary-looking  old  bridge  of  three  arches,  worn  and 
patched.  Any  charm  it  may  have  possessed  is  destroyed 
by  the  uncouth  structure  of  wood  and  iron  which  serves 
to  widen  its  narrow  mediaeval  way.  The  cross  stands  in 
the  district  once  occupied  by  the  convent  of  Sainte  Croix 
which  was  destroyed  during  the  siege  of  1543.  The 
monument  serves  to  commemorate  the  meeting  of  peace 
held  in  1538  by  Pope  Paul  III,  Frangois  I  and  the 
Emperor  Charles  V.  The  cross,  which  is  very  simple, 
rises  under  a  canopy  of  old,  grey  stone,  supported  by 
pillars  with  very  primitive  capitals.  The  cross  was  hidden 
away  during  the  Revolution  but  was  replaced  in  1806  by 
the  then  Countess  de  Villeneuve.  The  venerable  monu- 
ment, standing  as  it  does  in  a  busy  street  through  which 
the  tramcars  rumble,  looks  singularly  forlorn  and  out  of 
place. 

The  Castle  Hill  is  now  merely  a  wooded  height  which 
has  been  converted  into  a  quite  delightful  public  park. 
Among  the  forest  of  trees  are  many  remains  of  the  ancient 
citadel,  masses  of  tumbled  masonry,  a  half -buried  arch  or 
a  stone  doorway.  There  are  indications  also  of  the  founda- 
tions of  the  old  cathedral.  The  view  from  the  platform  on 
the  summit  is  very  fine,  while  at  the  foot  are  the  jumbled 
roofs  of  old  Nice.  It  is  easy  to  appreciate  how  strong  a 
fortress  it  was  and  how  it  proved  to  be  impregnable  to  the 
forces  of  Barbarossa  in  the  siege  of  1543.  It  is  a  hill  with 
a  great  history,  illumined  with  great  memories,  but  these 
are  not  encouraged  by  the  stall  for  postcards  and  the 
refreshment  bar  which  now  occupy  the  place  of  the  old 

donjon. 

28 


THE  SIEGE  OF  NICE 

NICE,  as  has  been  already  stated,  was  many  times 
besieged.  If  there  be  a  condition  among  towns 
that  may  be  called  ''  the  siege  habit  "  then  Nice 
had  acquired  it.  The  most  memorable  assault  upon  the 
place  was  in  1548.  It  was  so  gallant  an  affair  that  it  is 
always  referred  to  as  the  siege  of  Nice. 

It  was  an  incident  of  the  war  between  Charles  V  and 
Francois  I,  King  of  France.  A  treaty  had  been  entered 
into  between  these  two  sovereigns  which  is  com- 
memorated to  this  day  by  the  Croix  de  Marbre  in  the 
Rue  de  France.  Charles  V  thought  fit  to  regard  this 
obligation  as  "  a  scrap  of  paper  "  and  declared  war  upon 
the  French  king.  The  French  at  once  started  to 
attack  Nice  which  was  conveniently  near  to  the  frontier 
and  at  the  same  time  an  important  stronghold  of  the 
enemy. 

Now  in  these  days  business  entered  largely  into  the 
practical  affairs  of  warfare.  A  combatant  must  obviously 
have  a  fighting  force.  If  he  possessed  an  inadequate  army 
he  must  take  means  to  supplement  it.  He  must  hire  an 
army  on  the  best  terms  he  could  and  in  accord  with 
the  hire-system  arrangement  of  the  time.  Professional 
warriors  were  numerous  enough  and  were  as  eager  for  a 
temporary  engagement  as  are  "  supers  "  at  a  pantomime. 

29 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

They  could  not  be  obtained  through  what  would  now  be 
called  a  Registry  Office ;  but  there  were  contractors  or 
war-employment  agents  who  could  supply  the  men  en 
masse, 

Francois  I,  when  the  war  began,  found  himself 
very  ill  provided  with  fighting  men  and  especially  with 
seamen  and  ships,  for  Nice  was  a  port.  He  naturally, 
therefore,  applied  to  the  nearest  provider  of  war  material 
and  was  able  to  secure  no  less  a  man  than  Barbarossa  the 
pirate. 

It  is  necessary  to  speak  more  fully  about  this  talented 
man ;  for  in  all  popular  accounts  of  the  great  siege  of  Nice 
two  persons  alone  are  pre-eminent ;  two  alone  occupy  the 
stage — a  pirate  and  a  laundress,  Barbarossa  and  Segurana. 
Hariadan  Barbarossa  was  a  pirate  by  profession,  or  as 
some  would  style  him  who  prefer  the  term,  a  corsair.  His 
sphere  of  activity  was  the  Mediterranean  and  especially 
the  shores  of  Africa.  He  had  done  extremely  well  and, 
as  the  result  of  diligent  robbery  with  violence  pursued  for 
many  years,  he  had  acquired  territory  in  Tunis  where  he 
reigned  as  a  kind  of  caliph.  He  was  not  a  Moor  nor  was 
he  black.  He  was  a  native  of  Mitylene.  The  name 
Barbarossa,  or  Redbeard,  had  been  given  him  apparently 
in  part  on  account  of  his  hair  and  in  part  from  the  fact 
that  his  real  name  was  unpronounceable.  His  exploits 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  Sultan  of  Turkey  who  was 
so  impressed  with  his  ability  that  he  took  him  into  his 
service  and  made  him  Grand  Admiral  of  the  Ottoman 
fleet.  It  was,  therefore,  with  Turkish  ships  and  with 
Turkish  men  that  Barbarossa  came  to  the  aid  of  the  King 
of  France. 

The  leader  of  the  French  troops  was  the  Comte  de 

30 


The  Siege  of  Nice 

Grignan.  He  seems,  however,  to  have  been  a  person 
of  small  importance.  Barbarossa  was  the  commanding 
figure,  the  leader  and  the  hero  of  the  drama. 

The  governor  of  Nice  was  a  grey-headed  warrior,  one 
Andrea  Odinet,  Count  of  Montfort.  Barbarossa  com- 
menced operations  on  August  9th  but  before  his  attack 
was  delivered  he  sent  a  formal  message  to  the  governor 
demanding  the  surrender  of  the  town.  The  governor 
replied  enigmatically  that  his  name  was  Montfort.  Bar- 
barossa probably  perceived  that  the  name  was  appropriate, 
for  the  hill  held  by  the  enemy  was  strong.  He  further 
informed  the  pirate  that  his  family  motto  was  "  Bisogno 
tenere,"  which  may  be  rendered  "  I  am  bound  to  hold 
on."  Having  furnished  these  biographical  details  he 
suggested  that  the  Turkish  admiral  had  a  little  more  to 
do  than  he  could  manage. 

The  position  of  the  town,  with  its  walls,  its  bastions 
and  its  gates,  has  been  already  set  forth  in  the  preceding 
chapter.  The  main  assault  was  made  on  the  north  side 
of  Nice,  the  special  object  of  attack  being  the  Pairoliera 
bastion  which  faced  the  spot  now  occupied  by  the  Place 
Garibaldi.  The  batteries  opened  fire  and  poured  no  fewer 
than  three  hundred  shots  a  day  upon  the  unhappy  city. 
This  cannonade  was  supplemented  by  that  of  one  hundred 
and  twenty  galleys  which  were  anchored  off  the  foot  of 
Mont  Boron. 

By  August  15th  a  breach  was  made  in  the  Pairoliera 
bastion,  and  the  Turks  and  the  French  moved  together 
to  the  assault.  They  were  thrown  back  with  fury.  They 
renewed  the  attack,  but  were  again  repulsed  and  on  the 
third  violent  onrush  were  once  more  hurled  back.  At 
last,  wearied  and  disheartened,  they  retired,  having  lost 

31 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

heavily  in  men  and  having  suffered  the  capture  of  three 
standards. 

The  poor,  battered  town  of  Nice,  jyith  its  small 
garrison,  could  not  however  endure  for  long  the 
incessant  rain  of  cannon  balls,  the  anxiety,  the  perpetual 
vigil  and  the  bursts  of  fighting;  so  after  eleven  days  of 
siege  the  lower  town  capitulated,  leaving  the  haute  ville, 
or  Castle  Hill,  still  untaken. 

Barbarossa  appears  to  have  dealt  with  that  part  of 
the  city  which  he  had  captured  in  quite  the  accepted 
pirate  fashion  and  with  great  heartiness.  He  destroyed 
as  much  of  it  as  his  limited  leisure  would  permit,  let 
loose  his  shrieking  Turks  to  run  riot  in  the  streets,  set 
fire  to  the  houses  and  took  away  three  thousand  inhabit- 
ants as  slaves.  Barbarossa — whatever  his  faults — was 
thorough. 

There  yet  remained  the  problem  of  the  upper  town 
on  the  Castle  Hill.  It  was  unshaken,  untouched  and  as 
defiant  as  the  precipice  on  which  it  stood ;  while  over 
the  tower  of  the  keep  the  banner  of  Nice  floated  lazily 
in  the  breeze  as  if  it  heralded  an  autumn  fete  day. 
The  Turkish  batteries  thundered  not  against  walls  and 
bastions  but  against  a  solid  and  indifferent  rock.  To 
scale  the  side  of  the  cliff  was  not  within  the  power  of 
man.  The  garrison  on  the  height  had  little  to  do  but 
wait  and  count  the  cannon  balls  which  smashed  against 
the  stone  with  as  little  effect  as  eggshells  against  a  block 
of  iron. 

The  view  is  generally  accepted  that  little  is  to  be 
gained  by  knocking  one's  head  against  a  stone  wall. 
The  general  in  command  of  the  French  was  becoming 
impressed  with  this  opinion  and  was  driven  to   adopt 

32 


NICE  :    A    STREET  IN   THE   OLD   TOWN. 


The  Siege  of  Nice 

another  and  more  effective  method  of  destroying  Nice. 
In  his  camp  were  certain  traitors,  deserters  and  spies 
.who  had  sold  themselves,  body  and  soul,  to  the  attacking 
army.  Conspicuous  among  these  was  Gaspard  de  Cais 
(of  whom  more  will  be  heard  in  the  telling  of  the  siege 
of  Eze),  Boniface  Ceva  and  a  scoundrel  of  particular 
baseness  named  Benoit  Grimaldo,  otherwise  Oliva.  These 
mean  rogues  assured  the  French  general  that  Nice  could 
be  taken  by  treachery.  They  had  co-conspirators  in  the 
town  who  were  anxious  to  help  in  destroying  the  place 
of  their  birth  and  were  masters  of  a  plan  which  could 
not  fail.  Three  Savoyard  deserters  offered  their  services 
as  guides;  and  one  day,  as  the  twilight  was  gathering, 
Benoit  Grimaldo,  the  three  guides,  and  a  party  of  armed 
men  started  out  cheerfully  for  the  Castle  Hill.  On 
gaining  access  to  the  town  they  were  to  make  way  for 
the  body  of  the  troops.  The  French  to  a  man  watched 
the  hill  for  the  signal  that  would  tell  that  the  impreg- 
nable fortress  had  been  entered  and,  with  arms  in  hand, 
were  ready  to  spring  forward  to  victory. 

Unfortunately  one  of  the  deserters  had  a  conscience. 
His  conscience  was  so  disturbed  by  qualms  that  the  man 
was  compelled  to  sneak  to  his  colonel  and  "tell  him 
all."  It  thus  came  to  pass  that  Benoit  and  his  creeping 
company  were  met  by  a  sudden  fusillade  which  killed 
many  of  them.  The  survivors  fled.  Grimaldo  jumped 
into  the  sea  and  saved  himself  by  swimming.  Later  on 
— it  may  be  mentioned — he  was  taken  by  some  of  his 
old  comrades  of  the  Castle  Hill  and  was  hanged  within 
sight  of  his  own  home. 

In  this  way  did  the  siege  of  Nice  come  to  an  end, 
leaving  the  city  untaken  and  the  flag  still  floating  over 

^  33 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

the  gallant  height;  while  the  discomfited  pirate  sailed 
away  for  other  fields  of  usefulness.^ 

It  is  necessary  now  to  turn  to  the  case  of  the  laundress 
who  shared  with  Barbarossa  the  more  dramatic  glories  of 
the  siege.  She  is  said,  in  general  terms,  "  to  have  fought 
valiantly  and  to  have  inspirited  the  defenders  by  her 
example."  As  to  her  exact  deeds  of  valour  there  is  some 
obscurity  in  matters  of  detail  and  some  conflict  of  evidence 
as  to  the  scope  and  purpose  of  her  military  efforts.  If 
her  capacity  for  destroying  Turks  may  be  measured  by 
the  capacity  of  the  modern  laundress  for  destroying  linen 
she  must  have  been  an  exceedingly  formidable  personage. 
The  story,  as  given  by  Baring-Gould,  is  as  follows :  ^ 

*'  Catherine  Segurane,  a  washerwoman,  was  carrying 
provisions  on  the  wall  to  some  of  the  defenders  when  she 
saw  that  the  Turks  had  put  up  a  scaling  ladder  and  that 
a  captain  was  leading  the  party  and  had  reached  the 
parapet.  She  rushed  at  him,  beat  him  on  the  head  with 
her  washing  bat  and  thrust  him  down  the  ladder  which 
fell  with  all  those  on  it.  Then  hastening  to  the  nearest 
group  of  Nicois  soldiers  she  told  them  what  she  had  done, 
and  they,  electrified  by  her  example,  threw  open  a  postern, 
made  a  sortie,  and  drove  the  Turks  back  to  the  shore." 

Apart  from  the  fact  that  the  picture  of  a  washerwoman 
strolling  about  in  the  firing  line  with  a  laundry  implement 
in  her  hand  is  hard  to  realise,  it  must  be  added  that 
certain  French  accounts  and  the  story  of  Ricotti  differ 
materially  from  the  narrative  given.  Ricotti  speaks  of 
Segurana  as  a  poor  lady  of  Nice,  aged  thirty-seven,  who 

*  Nostredame,  "  History  of  Provence,"  1614.  Durante's  "  History  of 
Nice,"  1823.  Vol.  ii.  Ricotti,  "  Storia  della  monarchia  piemontese,"  1861. 
Vol.  1. 

*  "Riviera,"  by  S.  Baring-Gould,  1905. 

34 


The  Siege  of  Nice 

was  so  ill-looking  that  she  went  by  the  nickname  of  Donna 
Maufaceia  or  Malfatta  which  may  be  rendered  as  Madame 
Ugly  Face.  She  is  said  to  have  been  possessed  of  rare 
strength,  to  have  been  mascuhne  in  bearing  and  ingrate 
or  unpleasing  in  her  general  aspect.  She  is  described  as 
having  performed  some  feat  of  strength  with  a  Turkish 
standard  that  she  had  seized  with  her  own  hands.  Accord- 
ing to  one  account  she  threw  the  standard  into  the  moat 
and  according  to  another  she  planted  it  upside  down  on 
the  top  of  Castle  Hill — a  somewhat  childish  display  of 
swagger. 

From  the  rather  ridiculous  elements  furnished  by  the 
various  records  a  composite  story  comes  together  which 
is  as  full  of  charm  as  a  beautiful  allegory.  It  tells  of  no 
Joan  of  Arc  with  her  youth,  her  handsome  face,  her 
graceful  carriage,  her  shining  armour  and  her  powerful 
friends.  It  tells  of  a  woman  in  a  lowly  position  who  was 
no  longer  young,  who  was  ugly  and,  indeed,  unpleasant 
to  look  upon ,  who  was  the  butt  of  her  neighbours  and  was 
branded  with  a  cruel  nickname  by  her  own  townfolk. 
When  the  city  was  attacked  and  in  the  travail  of  despair 
this  despised  woman,  this  creature  to  laugh  at,  came  to 
the  front,  fought  with  noble  courage  by  the  side  of  the 
men,  shared  their  dangers  and  displayed  so  fine  and  so 
daring  a  spirit  that  she  put  heart  into  a  despairing  garrison, 
put  life  into  a  drooping  cause  and  made  victorious  what 
had  been  but  a  forlorn  hope.  It  was  the  fire  and 
patriotism  and  high  resolve  that  she  aroused  that  saved 
the  city  she  loved  and  earned  for  her  the  name,  for  all 
time,  of  the  Heroine  of  Nice.  Poor  Madame  Ugly  Face 
the  butt  of  the  town ! 


35 


VI 

CIMIEZ   AND    ST.    PONS 

BEHIND  the  city  of  Nice  rises  the  well  known  hill 
of  Cimiez,  on  the  gentle  slope  of  which  stand 
the  great  hotels.  On  the  summit  of  the  hill  was 
the  Roman  town  of  Cemenelum,  which  is  said  to  have 
numbered  30,000  inhabitants  and  which  was  at  the  height 
of  its  glory  before  Nice  itself  came  into  being.  Through 
Cemenelum  passed  the  great  Roman  road  which  ran  from 
the  Forum  of  Rome  to  Aries.  It  approached  Cimiez 
from  Laghet  and  La  Trinite- Victor  and  traces  of  it  are 
still  indicated  in  this  fashionable  colony  of  gigantic  hotels 
and  resplendent  villas. 

Few  remains  of  the  Roman  settlement  are  now  to 
be  seen ;  for  the  Lombards  in  the  sixth  century  did  their 
best  to  destroy  it  and  after  their  cyclonic  passage  the 
town  became  little  more  than  a  quarry  for  stones.  In 
the  grounds  of  the  Villa  Garin  is  a  structure  of  some 
size  which  is  assumed  by  the  learned  to  have  been  part  of  a 
temple  of  Apollo,  together  with  minor  fragments  of  walls 
which  are  claimed  to  have  belonged  to  the  Thermae. 

The  most  important  ruin  in  Cimiez  is  that  of  the 
amphitheatre.  It  is  a  mere  shell,  but  its  general  disposi- 
tion is  very  clear.  In  addition  to  a  lower  tier  of  seats 
there  are  remains  of  the  upper  rows  which  are  supported, 
as  in  the  Coliseum,  on  arches.    The  vaulted  porch  at  the 

36 


si 
H 


X 

< 

Z 

< 

o 

OS 
H 


N 


U 


Cimiez  and  St.  Pons 

main  entrance  is  in  singular  preservation.  The  arena 
measures  150  feet  in  one  axis  and  115  feet  in  the  other. 
It  is,  therefore,  small  and  in  the  form  of  a  broad  oval. 
A  great  deal  of  the  structure  is  buried  in  the  ground,  so 
that  it  is  estimated  that  the  original  floor  of  the  arena 
lies  at  least  ten  feet  below  the  existing  surface.  The 
ruins,  much  overgrown  with  grass  and  brambles,  have  an 
aspect  of  utter  desolation.  It  is  said  that  the  natives  call 
the  spot  il  tino  delle  fate,  or  the  fairies'  bath.  If  this  be 
so  there  is  assuredly  more  sarcasm  in  the  conceit  than 
poetic  merit,  for  the  sorry  parched-up  ruin  would  better 
serve  as  a  penitentiary  for  ghosts.  Through  the  centre 
of  the  amphitheatre  passed  at  one  time  the  road  from 
Cimiez  to  Nice.  It  is  now  closed  and  the  present  road, 
with  its  tram  lines,  runs  outside  the  walls  of  the  venerable 
building. 

Near  the  amphitheatre  and  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  is 
the  monastery  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi.  It  Hes  in  a 
modest  square,  shaded  by  old  ilex  trees.  At  one  end  of 
the  square  is  the  cross  of  Cimiez.  It  stands  aloft  on  a 
twisted  column  of  marble.  Upon  the  cross  is  carved  the 
six- winged  seraph  which  appeared  to  St.  Francis  in  a 
vision.  This  marvellous  work  of  art  dates  from  the  year 
1477.  The  cross,  like  the  column,  is  all  white  and, 
standing  up  as  it  does  against  the  deep  green  background 
of  a  solemn  elm,  it  forms  an  object  of  impressive  beauty. 
Crosses  in  the  open  are  to  be  found  throughout  the  whole 
of  France,  but  there  is  no  cross  that  can  compare  with 
this. 

The  monastery  was  founded  in  1543.  The  facade  of 
the  chapel,  with  its  bell  towers  on  either  side  and  its 
central  gable  over  a  pointed  window,  is  very  simple.    It 

37. 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

is  rather  spoiled  by  a  heavy  arcade  which,  being  recently 
restored  is  harsh  and  crude.  The  interior  of  the  chapel 
is  gracious  and  full  of  charm.  It  consists  of  a  square 
nave  flanked  by  narrow  aisles.  The  roof,  vaulted  and 
groined,  is  decorated  with  frescoes  and  is  supported  by 
square  columns  of  great  size.  At  the  far  end,  in  a  deep 
and  dim  recess,  is  the  altar.  This  chancel  is  cut  off  from 
the  church  by  a  balustrade  of  white  marble.  Behind  the 
altar  is  a  high  screen  of  daintily  carved  wood,  gilded  and 
relieved  by  three  niches.  It  is  a  work  of  the  sixteenth 
century. 

Many  churches  offend  by  lavish  and  obtrusive  orna- 
ment, by  glaring  colours,  by  reckless  splashes  of  bright 
gold,  by  excessive  detail,  all  of  which  give  a  sense  of 
restlessness  and  discord.  Such  churches  may  not  unfitly 
be  spoken  of  as  "  loud."  If  that  term  be  appropriate, 
then  this  little  shrine  may  be  described  as  the  chapel  of 
a  whisper.  Its  fascination  lies  in  its  exquisite  and  tender 
colouring  which  conveys  a  sense  of  supreme  quietude 
and  peace.  It  is  difficult  to  say  of  what  its  colouring 
consists  for  it  is  so  delicate  and  so  subdued.  There  is  a 
gentle  impression  of  faint  tints,  of  the  lightest  coral  pink, 
of  white,  of  grey,  of  a  hazy  blue.  The  general  effect  is 
that  of  a  piece  of  old  brocade,  the  colours  of  which  are  so 
faded  and  so  soft  that  all  details  of  the  pattern  have  been 
lost.  The  light  in  the  church  is  that  of  summer  twilight. 
The  altar  is  almost  lost  in  the  shadow.  The  screen  behind 
it  is  merely  such  a  background  of  old  gold  as  that  upon 
which  the  face  of  a  saint  was  painted  in  the  early  days  of 
art.  The  marble  rail  is  a  line  of  white  and  in  the  gloom 
of  the  chancel  is  the  light  of  one  tiny  red  lamp — a  mere 
still  spark. 

38 


Gimiez  and  St.  Pons 

In  two  of  the  side  chapels  are  paintings  by  Ludovici 
Brea  of  Nice  of  about  the  year  1512.  By  the  side  of 
the  church  is  the  monastery  which  is  now  deserted.  A 
corridor  leads  to  a  little  courtyard,  with  a  well  in  the 
centre,  and  around  it  a  plain  white- walled  cloister. 
Beyond  this  is  an  enclosed  garden  shut  in  also  by  a 
cloister  of  pale  arches  in  the  shadows  of  which  are  the 
doors  of  the  monastery  cells.  The  garden  is  in  a  state 
of  utter  neglect ;  but  in  it  still  flourish  palms  and  bamboos, 
orange  trees  and  a  few  despondent  flowers. 

That  side  of  the  hill  of  Cimiez  which  looks  towards 
the  east  is  somewhat  steep,  and  the  zigzag  road  which 
traverses  it  leads  down  to  the  broad,  open  valley  of  the 
Paillon  river.  Near  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  on  a  little 
promontory  just  above  the  level  floor  of  the  valley  stands 
the  Abbey  of  St.  Pons.  The  name,  St.  Pons,  is  given  to 
the  district  around  which  forms  a  scattered  suburb  of 
Nice.  The  place  is  still  green,  for  it  abounds  with  gardens 
and  orange  groves;  but  it  is  being  "developed  "  and  is 
becoming  a  semi-industrial  quarter,  very  devoid  of  attrac- 
tion. There  are  factories  in  St.  Pons,  together  with 
workshops  and  depressing  houses,  a  tram  line  and — 
across  the  river — a  desert  of  railway  sidings.  It  possesses 
many  cafes  which,  on  the  strength  of  a  few  orange  trees, 
a  palm  or  two  and  an  arbour,  make  a  meretricious  claim 
to  be  rural.  From  all  these  objects  the  abbey  is  happily 
removed ;  but  its  position  is  neither  so  romantic  nor  so 
picturesque  as  its  past  history  would  suggest. 

The  present  abbey  church  is  a  drab,  uninteresting 
building  with  a  prominent  tower.  It  was  built  about  the 
end  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  monastery  is  occupied 
by  an  asylum  for  the  insane.    The  Abbey  of  St.  Pons  is 

39 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

of  great  antiquity,  since  it  dates  from  the  eighth  century 
and  it  is  claimed  that  Charlemagne  sojourned  there  on 
two  occasions.  It  stands  on  the  site  of  ancient  Roman 
buildings,  for  numerous  remains  of  that  period  have  been 
unearthed,  among  .which  are  an  altar  to  Apollo,  many 
sarcophagi  and  some  inscribed  stones. 

There  was  also  a  convent  at  St.  Pons  long  centuries 
ago.  Its  precise  position  is  a  matter  of  doubt ;  for,  so 
far  as  I  can  ascertain,  no  trace  of  the  building  can  now 
be  pointed  out  with  assurance.  In  the  history  of  St.  Pons 
this  convent  plays  a  conspicuous,  if  momentary  part.  The 
episode  is  deplorable  for  it  concerns  the  dramatic  circum- 
stances under  which  the  convent  came  to  an  end. 


40 


J 

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1 


VII 

HOW  THE  CONVENT  OF  ST.  PONS  CAME  TO  AN  END 

ON  a  kindly  afternoon  in  St.  Martin's  summer, 
when  the  shadows  were  lengthening  and  the  beech 
woods  were  carpeted  with  copper  and  gold,  a 
party  of  gallants  were  making  their  way  back  to  Nice 
after  a  day's  ramble  among  the  hills.  It  was  in  the  year 
1408,  when  this  poor  worried  world  was  still  young  and 
thoughtless.  They  were  strolling  idly  down  the  valley 
of  St.  Pons,  loath  to  return  to  their  cramped,  dull 
palaces  on  the  Castle  Hill,  when  a  storm  began  to  rumble 
up  from  the  south  and  the  sky  to  become  black  and 
threatening.  Slashed  doublets  and  silken  hose  and  caps 
of  miniver  are  soon  made  mean  by  the  rain;  so  the 
question  arose  as  to  a  place  of  shelter. 

At  the  moment  when  the  first  large  ominous  drops 
were  falling  the  little  party  chanced  to  be  near  by  the 
convent  of  St.  Pons.  It  is  a  bold  thing  for  a  company 
of  gay  young  men  to  approach  a  retreat  of  nuns ;  but  the 
wind  was  already  howling,  the  blast  was  chill  and  these 
youths  were  bold.  The  door  was  opened,  not  by  an 
austere  creature  with  a  repellent  frown,  but  by  a  comely 
serving  sister  of  joyous  countenance.  The  youths,  adopt- 
ing that  abject  humility  which  men  assume  when  they  find 
themselves  where  they  ought  not  to  be,  begged  meekly 
for  shelter  from  the  rain.    Without  demur  and,  indeed, 

41 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

with  effusion  the  fair  janitor  bade  them  welcome  and 
asked  them  to  come  in.  The  young  men,  whose  faces 
until  now  were  solemn,  as  was  befitting  to  a  sacred  place, 
began  to  smile  and  to  appear  normal.  The  serving 
sister,  with  a  winning  curtsey,  said  she  would  call  the 
abbess. 

At  this  announcement  the  smile  vanished  from  the 
lips  of  the  refugees.  An  abbess  was  a  terrible  and 
awe-inspiring  thing,  something  that  was  stout  and  red, 
imperious  and  chilling,  inclined  to  wrath  and  very  severe 
in  all  matters  relating  to  young  men.  A  few  turned  as 
if  to  make  for  the  outer  door ;  while  one — who  had  held 
an  outpost  in  a  siege — whispered  to  his  friend  "  Now  we 
are  in  for  it !  "  After  a  period  of  acute  suspense  an 
inner  door  opened  and  the  abbess  appeared.  She  was 
stout,  it  is  true ;  but  it  was  a  very  comfortable,  embrace- 
inviting  stoutness.  She  was  red;  but  it  was  the  ruddy 
glow  of  a  ripe  apple.  Her  face  was  sunny,  her  mouth 
smiling  and  her  manner  warm.  In  age  she  was  just 
past  the  meridian.  She  was,  indeed,  the  embodiment  of 
St.  Martin's  summer. 

She  greeted  the  new-comers  with  heartiness ;  laughed 
at  their  timidity ;  asked  them  what  they  were  frightened 
at  and  told  them,  with  no  conventual  restraint,  that  she 
was  delighted  to  see  them.  When  one  mumbled  some- 
thing about  being  driven  in  by  the  rain  she  said,  with  a 
coy  glance  at  her  guests,  that  rain  was  much  wanted  just 
then  about  the  convent.  She  put  them  at  their  ease.  She 
chattered  and  warbled  as  one  who  loves  to  talk.  Her 
voice  rippled  through  the  solemn  hall  like  the  song  of  a 
full-breasted  thrush.  She  asked  them  their  names  and 
what  they  were  doing.     She  wanted  to  hear  the  lighter 

42 


How  the  Convent  of  St.  Pons  Ended 

gossip  of  Castle  Hill  and  to  be  told  of  the  scrapes  in  which 
they  were  involved  and  of  the  bearing  of  their  lady  loves. 
She  twitted  a  handsome  knight  upon  his  good  looks  and 
caused  a  shy  seigneur  to  stammer  till  he  blushed. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  she  was  an  ordinary 
abbess  or  a  type  of  the  reverend  lady  who  should  control 
the  lives  and  mould  the  conduct  of  quiet  nuns.  Indeed 
the  recorder  of  this  chronicle  viewed  her  with  disapproval 
and  applied  harsh  terms  to  her ;  for  in  his  description  of 
this  merry,  fun-loving  and  comfortable  person  he  uses 
such  disagreeable  expressions  as  mondaine  and  honne 
viveuse.^ 

As  the  rain  was  still  beating  on  the  convent  roofs  and 
as  the  young  men  had  travelled  far  the  abbess  invited 
them  into  the  refectory,  a  white,  hollow  room  with  bare 
table  and  stiff  chairs.  Here  wine  was  placed  before  them, 
of  rare  quality  and  in  copious  amount;  while — sad  as  it 
may  be  to  tell  the  truth — nuns  began  to  sidle  timidly  into 
the  room,  one  by  one.  Whatever  might  be  the  comment 
the  fact  cannot  be  concealed  that  the  grim  refectory  was 
soon  buzzing  with  as  merry  a  company  as  ever  came 
together  and  one  very  unusual  within  the  walls  of  a 
convent. 

The  time  was  drawing  near  for  the  evening  service. 
Whether  the  abbess  invited  the  young  men  to  join  in  the 
devotions  proper  to  the  house,  or  whether  the  young  men, 
out  of  politeness,  suggested  that  they  should  attend  I  am 
unable  to  state,  for  the  historian  is  silent  upon  this  point. 

The  service  proceeded.  The  male  members  of  the 
congregation  were,  I  am  afraid,  inattentive.  They  were 
tired;  they  had  passed  through  an  emotional  adventure 

^  "  Legendes  et  Contes  de  Provence,"  by  Martrin-Donos. 

43 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

and  wine  is  soporific.  They  lolled  in  their  seats;  some 
rested  their  heads  on  the  bench  before  them ;  some  dozed ; 
some  even  may  have  slept. 

In  a  while  the  nuns  began  the  singing  of  the  *'  De 
Profundis  "  (Out  of  the  Depths).  As  they  sang  one  voice 
could  be  heard  soaring  above  the  rest,  a  voice  clear  and 
beautiful,  vibrating  with  tenderness,  with  longing  and 
with  infinite  pathos.  The  young  men  remained  unmoved 
save  one.  This  one,  who  had  been  lounging  in  a  corner, 
suddenly  awoke  and  was  at  once  alert,  startled  and 
alarmed.  He  clutched  the  seat  in  front  of  him  as  if 
he  would  spring  towards  the  spot  whence  the  music 
came.  His  eyes,  fixed  on  the  choir,  glared  as  the  eyes 
of  one  who  sees  a  ghost.  His  countenance  bore  the 
pallor  of  death.  He  trembled  in  every  fibre  of  his 
body. 

He  knew  the  voice.  It  was  to  him  the  dearest  in  the 
world.  It  was  a  voice  from  "  out  of  the  depths,"  for  it 
belonged  to  one  whom  he  believed  to  be  dead.  He  could 
not  see  the  singer;  but  he  could  see,  as  in  a  dream,  the 
vision  of  a  piteous  face,  a  face  with  eyes  as  blue  as 
a  summer  lake,  with  lips  whimsical,  tantalising  and 
ineffable ;  could  see  the  tender  cheek,  the  chin,  the  white 
forehead,  the  waving  hair.  He  knew  that  she  who  sang 
was  no  other  than  Blanche  d'Entrevannes,  whom  he  had 
loved  and  to  whom  he  .was  still  devoted. 

But  a  few  years  past  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms,  had 
kissed  those  lips,  and  had  thrilled  to  the  magic  of  that 
voice.  Her  father  had  frowned  upon  their  hopes  and  had 
forbidden  their  union.  The  lad  had  been  called  away  to 
the  wars.  When  he  returned  he  had  sought  her  out  and 
was  told  that  "she  is  dead."     He  haunted  every  spot 

44 


How  the  Convent  of  St.  Pons  Ended 

where  they  had  jyandered  together,  only  to  learn  the  truth 
that  "  no  place  is  so  forlorn  as  that  where  she  has  been," 
and  only  to  hear  again  that  she  was  dead. 

Blanche  was  not  dead,  but,  believing  their  case  to  be 
hopeless,  she  had  entered  the  convent  of  St.  Pons  and, 
in  a  few  days'  time,  would  take  the  veil. 

After  the  service  the  youth — whose  name  was  Raim- 
baud  de  Trects — disappeared  to  find  the  singer  at  any 
cost.  The  search  was  difficult.  At  last  he  met  a  sym- 
pathetic maid  who  said  that  Blanche  d'Entrevannes  was 
indeed  a  novice  in  the  convent  and  who,  with  little 
pressing,  agreed  to  convey  a  message  to  her.  The  message 
was  short.  It  told  that  he  was  there  and  begged  her  to 
fly  with  him  that  night.  The  answer  that  the  maid 
brought  back  was  briefer  still,  for  it  was  a  message  of  two 
words — "  I  come." 

The  rain  continued  to  pour,  the  harsh  wind  blew  and 
the  gallant  knights  were  still  in  need  of  shelter.  How 
they  spent  the  night  and  how  they  were  disposed  of  I  do 
not  know,  for  the  strict  narrative  avoids  all  reference  to 
that  matter. 

By  the  morning  the  storm  had  passed  away  and  as 
the  sun  broke  out  the  young  men  reluctantly  prepared  to 
take  their  leave.  The  abbess  would  not  allow  them  to 
go  without  one  final  ceremony.  They  must  all  drink  the 
stirrup  cup  together,  "to  speed  the  parting  guest,"  as 
was  the  custom  of  the  time.  It  was  an  hilarious  ceremony 
and  one  pleasant  to  look  upon.  In  the  road  before  the 
convent  gate  stood  the  cheery  abbess  in  the  light  of  the 
unflinching  day.  In  her  hand  she  raised  a  brimming 
goblet  and  her  sleeve  falling  back  revealed  a  white  and 
comely  arm.     Around  her  was  a  smiling  company  of 

45 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

young  men  whose  many-coloured  costumes  lit  up  the  dull 
road  and  the  old  grey-tinted  rocks.  Behind  her  were  the 
nuns  in  a  semicircle  of  sober  brown,  giggling  and  chatting, 
nudging  one  another  and  a  little  anxious  about  their  looks 
in  the  merciless  morning  light.  It  was  a  noisy  gathering 
but  very  picturesque;  for  the  scarlet  and  blue  of  the 
knights'  doublets  and  the  glint  of  steel  made  a  pretty 
contrast  with  the  row  of  white  faces  in  white  coifs  and 
the  cluster  of  dark-coloured  gowns.  It  was  like  a  bunch 
of  flowers  in  an  earthenware  bowl. 

The  abbess,  beaming  as  the  morning,  was  about  to 
speak  when  something  terrible  came  to  pass.  There 
appeared  in  the  road  the  most  dread-inspiring  thing  that 
the  company  of  knights  and  nuns  could  have  feared  to 
see.  It  was  not  a  lion  nor  was  it  a  dragon.  It  was  a 
bishop.  It  was  not  one  of  those  fat,  smihng  bishops  with 
flabby  cheeks  and  ample  girth,  whose  loose  mouth  breathes 
benevolence  and  whose  hands  love  to  pat  curly  heads  and 
trifle  with  pretty  chins.  It  was  a  thin  bishop  with  a  face 
like  parchment  and  the  visage  of  a  hawk.  He  was 
frenzied  with  rage.  He  stamped  and  shrieked.  He 
foamed  at  the  mouth.  His  arm  seemed  raised  to  strike, 
his  teeth  to  bite. 

A  word  must  here  be  said  to  explain  how  it  was  that 
the  prelate  had  "dropped  in"  at  this  singularly  unfor- 
tunate moment,  since  bishops  are  not  usually  wandering 
about  in  valleys  at  an  early  hour  on  November  mornings. 
It  came  about  in  this  way.  The  old  almoner  of  the  place, 
alarmed  and  horrified  at  the  conduct  of  the  abbess  and 
the  irreverent  and  indeed  ribald  "goings-on"  at  this 
religious  house,  had  hurried  during  the  night  to  the  bishop 
and  had  given  him  an  insight  into  convent  life  as  lived 

46 


How  the  Convent  of  St.  Pons  Ended 

at  St.  Pons.    He  begged  the  bishop  to  do  something,  and 
this  the  bishop  did. 

The  arrival  of  the  prelate  at  the  convent  gate  had  the 
effect  of  a  sudden  thunder-clap  on  a  clear  day.  The  abbess 
dropped  her  cup  ;  the  knights  doffed  their  caps  ;  the  maids, 
peeping  behind  corners,  fell  out  of  sight ;  while  the  nuns 
stood  petrified  like  a  row  of  brown  stones. 

The  great  cleric  screamed  out  his  condemnation  of 
the  abbess,  of  the  nuns,  of  the  convent  and  of  everything 
that  was  in  it.  He  shrieked  until  he  became  inarticulate 
and  until  his  voice  had  sunk  to  a  venomous  whisper  like 
the  hiss  of  a  snake.  He  dismissed  the  young  gallants  with 
a  speech  that  would  have  withered  a  worm.  Turning  to 
the  women  he  said  even  more  horrid  things.  He  expelled 
the  abbess  and  the  nuns  from  St.  Pons  and  ordered 
them  to  repair  at  once  to  the  convent  of  St.  Pierre 
d'Almanarre  near  Hyeres,  a  convent  notable  for  the 
severity  of  its  rules.  Here,  as  the  historian  says,  they 
would  be  able  "to  expiate  their  sins  with  austerities  to 
which  they  had  long  been  strangers." 

It  was  in  this  way  that  the  convent  of  St.  Pons 
came  to  an  end;  for  the  desecrated  building  was  never 
occupied  from  that  day.  No  nun  ever  again  paced  its 
quiet  courtyard ;  no  pigeons  came  fluttering  to  the 
sister's  hand  nor  did  the  passer-by  hear  again  the  sound 
of  women  singing  in  the  small  grey  chapel.  In  the 
course  of  centuries  the  building  fell  into  ruin  and,  year 
by  year,  the  scandalised  walls  crumbled  away,  while 
tender  rosemary  and  chiding  brambles  crept  over  the 
place  to  cover  its  shame. 

On  this  eventful  morning  the  bishop's  efforts  did  not 
end   when  he  had  sentenced  the  lady  abbess  and  had 

47 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

swept  the  convent  from  the  earth.  He  proceeded, 
before  he  left,  to  pronounce  over  the  assembly  the 
anathema  of  the  Church.  He  cursed  them  all  from 
the  abbess  standing  with  bowed  head  to  the  scullion 
gaping  from  the  kitchen  door.  He  cursed  the  nuns, 
the  novices,  the  lay  helpers  and  the  maids,  and  had  there 
been  a  jackdaw  in  the  building,  as  at  Rheims,  he  would, 
no  doubt,  have  included  the  bird  in  his  anathema.  So 
wide  and  so  comprehensive  a  cursing,  delivered  before 
breakfast,  had  never  before  been  known. 

Two  of  the  party — and  two  only — escaped  the  curse 
of  the  Church,  Raimbaud  de  Trects  and  Blanche 
d'Entrevannes.  It  was  not  until  the  morning,  when 
the  whole  of  the  company  were  assembled  about  the 
convent  gate,  that  the  two  were  missed. 

The  historian,  in  his  mercy,  adds  this  note  at  the  end 
of  his  narrative  :  "  In  the  parish  register  of  the  village 
of  Entrevannes,  in  the  year  1408,  there  stands  the 
record  of  the  marriage  of  the  chevalier  Raimbaud  de 
Trects  to  the  noble  lady   Blanche  d'Entrevannes." 


48 


yiii 

VENCE,  THE  DEFENDER  OF  THE  FAITH 

VENCE  is  a  very  ancient  place  with  a  history  of 
some  merit.  It  is  said  to  have  been,  in  its  earliest 
days,  the  stronghold  of  a  native  tribe.  Since  it 
stands  on  a  hill  convenient  in  position  this  statement 
may  probably  be  allowed.  It  had  the  usual  infantile 
troubles  of  growing  towns  in  this  area.  It  was  occupied 
in  turn  by  the  Phoenicians,  Phocseans  and  Gauls,  and 
was  ravaged,  in  due  course  and  in  appropriate  manner, 
by  both  Saracens  and  Lombards.  It  played  but  a  minor 
part  in  those  later  turmoils  which  rent  the  rest  of 
Provence,  and  was  indifferently  moved  by  the  upheaval 
and  the  downfall  of  neighbouring  principalities  and 
powers.  Vence,  however,  had  concerns  and  troubles  of 
its  own,  achievements  to  be  proud  of  and  dissensions  to 
deplore ;  for  it  was,  first  and  foremost,  a  religious  town, 
and  both  its  greatness  and  its  trials  had  an  origin  in 
religion. 

When  the  Romans  came  they  established  on  this 
secluded  spot  an  imperial  city.  It  seems  to  have  been 
not  so  much  a  military  station  as  an  outpost  of  the 
picturesque  faith  of  Rome,  a  kind  of  Canterbury  in  the 
backwoods  of  Provence.  They  called  the  place  Ventium, 
and  some  indication  of  its  ancient  boundaries  can  still 

be  traced.    It  is  known  to  the  historian  by  its  temples. 
E  49 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

How  many  of  these  buildings  existed  is  a  matter  of 
doubt,  but  certain  it  is  that  the  pious  Roman,  toiling 
up  to  Ventium  from  the  coast,  would  see  afar  off,  stand- 
ing up  against  the  hills,  the  white  columns  of  the  temples 
to  Cybele  and  to  Mars.  Of  these  shrines  no  vestige 
.now  remains.  The  stones  have  been  scattered  and  have 
become  mere  material  in  the  mason's  hands.  Some  have 
helped  to  build  a  Christian  church,  others  to  found  a  city 
wall  or  to  give  dignity  to  the  house  of  a  mediaeval 
burgher.^ 

There  are  many  Roman  inscriptions  still  in  Vence. 
They  have  been  found  in  all  sorts  of  odd  places,  on  street 
walls,  in  gardens,  in  cellars,  as  well  as  on  certain  stones 
in  the  old  church.  From  these  fragments,  as  disjointed 
and  as  incongruous  as  the  mutterings  of  a  sleeping  man, 
a  broken  history  of  Ventium,  in  the  years  before  and 
just  after  Christ,  has  been  pieced  together. 

The  inscriptions  are,  in  a  general  way,  commemorative. 
There  is  one,  for  instance,  to  Lucius  Veludius  Valerianus, 
decurion  of  Vence,  to  record  the  fact  that  he  had  filled 
the  functions  both  of  magistrate  and  of  priest.  With 
his  name  is  associated  very  prettily  that  of  his  wife  Vibia, 
for  she  no  doubt  shared  both  his  honours  and  his  trials. 
Vibia,  we  may  suppose,  had  left  the  gay  and  resplendent 
city  of  Rome  to  follow  her  adventurous  husband  into 
the  wilds  of  Gaul,  and  was  not  a  little  proud  of  the 
position  he  had  made  in  the  lonely  and  solemn  city. 
One  might  guess  that  it  was  Vibia  who  suggested  the 
inscription.  It  is  notable,  moreover,  that  the  most 
prominent  word  in  the  whole  tablet  and  the  one  in  the 
largest    letters    is    uxoRi    (wife).     Indeed,    this    word 

1  "  Cathedrals  and  Cloisters  of  the  South  of  France,"  by  E.  W.  Rose. 

50 


Vence,  the  Defender  of  the  Faith 

occupies  an  entire  line  to  itself.  It  would  seem  as  if 
Vibia  wished  to  make  it  emphatic  that  she  was  a  wife, 
and  not  otherwise. 

If  any  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  old  town  could  come 
back  to  life  again  I  should  especially  like  to  witness  the 
meeting,  in  the  main  street,  between  Vibia  and  her 
successor  in  office,  the  mayoress  of  Vence  of  to-day.  They 
would  be  a  strange  couple,  strange  in  dress,  in  bearing 
and  in  speech,  as  odd  as  if  a  person  wore  on  one  foot  a 
dainty  Roman  sandal  and  on  the  other  an  American 
boot.  The  two  ladies  would  have,  however,  this  in 
common — the  country  they  gazed  across  would  be  as 
familiar  to  the  one  as  to  the  other. 

There  is  among  the  many  writings  in  stone  one  which 
refers  to  the  goddess  Cybele  and  the  ceremony  of  the 
Taurobolium.  This  pagan  ceremony  was  both  a  sacri- 
fice and  an  act  of  purification.  Its  symbolism  is  of 
interest  when  viewed  in  connection  with  that  of  the 
Christian  church  which  directly  followed  upon  the  old 
faith.  A  bull  was  sacrificed  to  the  goddess.  The  animal 
was  placed  upon  a  grating  or  latticed  stage  over  a  pit. 
In  the  pit  crouched  the  penitent.  The  blood  of  the 
bull,  as  it  poured  over  the  body  of  the  penitent,  washed 
away  all  sin,  all  impurities  and  stains,  and  gave  to  the 
man  thus  made  regenerate  a  new  and  holier  life.^ 

Vence  was  at  an  early  period  converted  to  Christianity. 
The  identity  of  the  missionary  who  brought  about  this 
change  ts  not  clearly  established ;  but  the  work  is  gener- 
ally ascribed  to  St.  Trophime.  The  body  of  St.  Trophime 
lies  in  the  old  cathedral  of  Aries,  in  that  church  which 

^  "  Voyages  dans  les  Dfpartements  du  Midi  de  la  France,"  by  A.  L.  Millin,  1808 
"  La  Chorographie  et  I'histoire  de  Provence,"  by  Honord  Bouche,  1664,  p.  283. 

51 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

bears  his  name.  Among  the  ruins  of  the  abbey  of 
Montmajour,  near  Aries,  is  his  cell,  a  little  rock 
sanctuary  buried  in  the  very  bowels  of  the  earth. 

A  bishopric  was  founded  in  Vence  as  early  as  374. 
The  city  became  a  prominent  and  influential  centre 
and  its  bishops  were,  with  scarcely  an  exception,  illus- 
trious men.  Most  of  these  prelates  are  buried  in  the 
cathedral  of  the  town.  The  tombs  of  two  of  the  very 
earliest,  viz.  St.  Veran  and  St.  Lambert,  occupy  chapels 
in  that  sanctuary. 

A  famous  ecclesiastic  was  Bishop  Godeau.  He  was 
born  in  1605  and  took  orders  when  he  was  thirty  years 
old.  He  was  a  man  of  great  learning  and  one  of  the 
founders  of  the  French  Academy.  He  was  highly 
esteemed,  not  only  by  the  people  of  Provence  but  also 
by  the  Papal  Court  and  the  counsellors  of  the  king. 
"  The  epitaph  of  Bishop  Godeau,"  writes  Hare,  "  com- 
memorates the  favourite  of  Richelieu,  who  obtained  his 
good  graces  by  dedicating  to  him  a  paraphrase  of  the 
Psalms,  which  begins  with  the  words  '  Benedicite  omnia 
opera  Domini,^  on  receiving  which  the  powerful  cardinal 
said,  '  Monsieur  I'Abbe,  vous  me  donnez  Benedicite,  et 
moi  je  vous  donner  Grasse.^  The  Pope  afterwards 
allowed  Godeau  to  hold  the  bishopric  of  Vence  with  that 
of  Grasse."^ 

The  worthy  bishop  died  as  he  would  have  wished 
to  die.  In  Holy  Week  in  the  year  1672  he  was 
singing  the  Tenebrse  before  the  altar  of  his  cathedral 
of  Vence. ^  The  Tenebrae  represent  a  very  beautiful 
service  of  the  Catholic  Church.     A  candlestick  bearing 

1  "  The  Rivieras,"  by  Augustus  J,  Hare,  1897,  p.  47. 

2  "  The  Maritime  Alps  and  their  Seaboard,"  by  Miss  C.  L.  N.  Dempster,  1885. 

53 


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si 


Vence,  the  Defender  of  the  Faith 

fifteen  candles  is  placed  in  the  sanctuary.  These  are 
lit  when  the  service  begins.  At  the  end  of  each  Psalm 
or  Canticle  one  of  the  candles  is  extinguished  to  express 
the  desertion  of  Our  Lord  by  His  apostles  and  disciples. 
At  last  only  one  candle  remains.  It  signifies  the  Light 
of  the  World,  and  when  it  is  taken  down  and  placed 
behind  the  altar  it  serves  to  symbolise  the  burial  of  the 
Redeemer  of  Mankind.  On  the  occasion  of  the  celebra- 
tion at  Vence  as  the  last  candle  was  being  extinguished 
the  good  bishop  fell  dead  upon  the  altar  steps. 

Bishop  Surian  who  succeeded  to  the  see  in  1727 
had  a  somewhat  romantic  career.  He  began  life  as  a 
shepherd  boy.  Finding  this  existence  intolerable  he 
ran  away  from  home  with  the  very  inadequate  sum 
of  85  sous  in  his  pocket.  Falling  in^  with  men  who 
perceived  his  ability  he  was  educated  by  them  and 
admitted,  in  due  course,  to  the  priesthood.  It  is  said 
that  he  lived  as  frugally  when  he  was  a  bishop  as  he 
did  when  he  jvas  tending  sheep  on  the  hillside. 

On  the  outbreak  of  the  French  Revolution,  the  bishop 
of  Vence,  Bishop  Pisani,  fled  and  joined  that  vast  body 
of  some  4,000  priests  who  left  the  country  in  order  to 
avoid  the  penalties  which  the  Revolution  imposed. 
Pisani  was  the  last  bishop  of  Vence,  for  the  see  jvas 
never  restored. 

In  early  days  Vence  belonged  to  the  bishops,  the 
Church  being  the  ruling  power  in  the  pious  town.  When 
Vence  came  into  the  possession  of  the  Villeneuves — 
the  lords  of  Villeneuve-Loubet — the  seigniorial  rights 
over  Vence  were  divided  between  the  bishopric  and  the 
Villeneuve  family.  The  Villeneuves  fled  from  France 
at    the   time    of    the    Revolution    and    although    they 

53 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

returned  when  the  Terror  had  passed  away  it  was  only 
to  rid  themselves  of  their  lands  in  Provence  and  seek  a 
habitation  elsewhere. 

Vence  being  a  devout  town  and  one  prominent  in  all 
ecclesiastical  affairs  it  is  no  matter  of  surprise  that  it 
became  deeply  disturbed  by  the  "new  religion"  as 
taught  and  stoutly  maintained  by  the  Huguenots.  It 
is  further  no  matter  of  surprise  that  the  dissenters 
made  this  stronghold  of  the  Church  a  special  object  of 
attack  and  that  Vence  became  a  conspicuous  scene  of 
their  pro  testings. 

The  position  assumed  some  gravity  when  the  Hugue- 
nots did  more  than  protest  against  forms  of  worship 
and  took  to  arming  themselves  with  weapons  of  war. 
They  went  further.  They  became  clamorous  and 
threatening  and  made  it  clear  that  they  were  no  longer 
to  be  put  off  by  mere  academic  arguments  or  quota- 
tions from  the  Fathers.  Moreover  this  conflict  between 
the  Protestant  and  the  Catholic  involved  certain  political 
issues  which  were  outside  the  burning  questions  of 
creed;  and  thus  it  was  that  men  were  drawn  into  the 
quarrel  to  whom  matters  of  State  were  more  important 
than  matters  of  doctrine. 

The  trouble  came  to  a  head  in  1560.  The  bishop  at 
the  time  was  a  Grimaldi,  while  the  castle  of  Villeneuve 
.was  possessed  by  his  uncle,  a  Lascaris.  On  the  Catholic 
side,  therefore,  Vence  was  solid  and  prepared  to  take 
prompt  action  to  crush  the  revolt.  A  body  of  some 
three  hundred  men  was  raised  to  deal  with  the  Hugue- 
nots, but,  in  spite  of  the  all-pervading  power  of  the 
Church  there  were  Huguenots  in  Vence  and  the 
vicinity  and  they,  in  turn,  raised  men  to  support  their 

54 


Vence,  the  Defender  of  the  Faith 

cause.  A  Huguenot  gentleman,  .with  the  pleasant  name 
of  Rene  de  Cypieres,  also  collected  a  squadron  of  forty- 
horse  to  help  those  who  espoused  the  reformed  faith. 

Vence  thus  became  in  this  fair  area  of  France  the 
Defender  of  the  Faith.  The  governor  of  the  town  issued 
an  order  forbidding  the  citizens  to  harbour  or  conceal 
a  Huguenot  in  any  house,  garden  or  vineyard.  The 
bishop  denounced  the  Protestants  as  ' '  vagabonds  and 
seditious  men."  What  terms  the  Huguenots,  on  the 
other  hand,  applied  to  the  bishop  are  not  known,  but 
they  were  certainly  not  lacking  in  invective  for  the 
contest  was  bitter. 

Life  in  the  cathedral  town  must  have  been  very 
unpleasant  about  this  period.  So  keen  was  the  dispute 
that  everyone  must,  of  necessity,  have  taken  sides. 
Friends  broke  from  one  another  after  an  intimacy  of  a 
lifetime ;  lovers  parted ;  the  Catholic  wife  left  the  hus- 
band who  had  turned  Huguenot ;  while  families  who 
were  united  by  ties  that  had  endured  for  generations 
now  found  themselves  scowling  at  one  another  from 
opposite  camps.  Children  were  forbidden  to  speak  to 
old  playmates,  and  the  little  girl  who  had  been  so  sweet 
to  her  boy  friend  now  put  out  her  tongue  at  him  when 
they  passed  in  the  street. 

In  1562  there  seems  to  have  been  a  lull  in  this 
unhappy  quarrel  and  even  a  sign  of  tolerance,  if  not 
of  peace;  for  the  Huguenots,  although  forbidden  the 
righteous  city  of  Vence,  were  allowed  to  hold  meetings 
.without  its  walls. 

The  fire  was,  however,  only  smouldering.  The 
truce  was  little  more  than  a  pretence.  The  quiet  in 
the  streets  was  ominous.     Although  the  sun  shone  upoE 

55 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

the  faithful  town  a  black  cloud  that  betokened  a  storm 
was  rising  in  the  south.  In  1582,  with  a  rumble  of 
thunder  and  a  darkening  sky,  the  tempest  burst.  A 
Huguenot  army  was  advancing  upon  Vence. 

It  is  necessary  to  pause  here  for  a  moment  to  record 
the  fact  that  ten  years  before  this  time  Vence  iwas 
approached  by  a  far  more  terrible  and  crafty  enemy 
than  the  Huguenot;  for  in  the  year  1572  the  army  of 
the  Black  Death  marched  into  the  town.  It  crept 
through  the  open  gates,  for  no  one  saw  it.  It  set  out 
to  strangle  and  kill  without  remonstrance,  for  no  one 
heard  its  footsteps.  It  spared  neither  the  armed  nor 
'the  helpless.  It  struck  down  the  captain  of  the  guard 
as  he  strutted  on  parade  as  well  as  the  child  who  toddled 
up  the  cathedral  steps  to  peep  in  at  the  door.  It  felled 
the  lusty  armourer  at  his  forge  and  the  maiden  singing 
over  her  needlework. 

As  many  as  could  flee  from  the  town  fled,  including 
the  bishop  who  sought  refuge  in  St.  Paul  du  Var. 
Grass  grew  in  the  empty  streets,  the  silence  of  which 
was  broken  only  by  the  rumble  of  a  cart  laden  with 
dead  and  the  tolling  of  a  weary  bell.  The  passer-by, 
with  his  cloak  drawn  over  his  face,  slunk  down  a  by-way 
when  he  saw  another  coming.  The  shops  were  closed; 
the  market-place  still,  or  traversed  by  a  starving  dog 
seeking  his  master  whom  he  would  never  find.  Here 
a  door  would  be  standing  open,  day  after  day,  because 
the  very  last  dweller  in  the  house  had  crawled  out  into 
the  street  to  die,  while  from  an  open  window  would 
hang  the  head  of  a  woman  whose  last  cry  for  help  had 
been  unheeded. 

One  would  have  supposed  that  this  common  disaster 

56 


Vence,  the  Defender  of  the  Faith 

would  have  made  for  peace,  but  it  only  served  to  deepen 
the  dissent;  for  the  Catholics  ascribed  the  visitation  to 
the  heresies  of  the  Huguenots,  while  they,  in  turn, 
regarded  the  Black  Death  as  a  mission  from  God  to 
punish  the  Church  for  its  misdeeds. 

The  position  of  affairs  when  the  war  burst  upon  Vence 
in  1582  was  as  follows :  That  corner  of  Provence  to  the 
west  which  bordered  on  Marseilles,  and  which  would  be 
behind  a  line  drawn — let  us  say — from  Aix-en-Provence 
to  BrignoUes,  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Church  party. 
On  the  east  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  with  2,000  men, 
was  moving  from  the  Italian  frontier  to  the  support  of 
his  friends  at  Marseilles.  His  concern  in  the  conflict 
was  based  upon  political  rather  than  upon  religious 
grounds.  He  was,  in  fact,  taking  advantage  of  the 
discord  that  raged  on  his  borders.  Between  these  two 
forces  was  the  open  country,  in  the  centre  of  which  jvas 
Vence. 

Now  the  Huguenot  army  was  advancing  from  the 
south,  from  the  shelter  of  the  Esterel  mountains.  It 
was  led  by  a  very  remarkable  man,  by  name  Lesdiguieres. 
[He  was  young,  brilliant,  daring  and  ever  victorious. 
Nothing  could  stand  in  his  way ;  nothing,  indeed,  dared 
stand  in  his  way,  for  his  very  name  inspired  terror. 

He  had  two  things  to  accomplish — one  was  to  cut  off 
the  advancing  army  of  the  Duke  of  Savoy  and  prevent  it 
from  reaching  Marseilles,  and  the  other  was  to  destroy 
the  city  of  Vence,  the  outpost  of  Marseilles  and  the  holder 
of  the  pass. 

Vence  stood  alone  in  the  way  as  the  Defender  of  the 
Faith.  It  was  the  centre  srtone  of  the  position.  So  long 
as  Vence  held  it  was  well  for  those  who  were  fighting 

57 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

the  battle  of  the  Church.  If  the  faithful  city  fell  the 
outlook  was  unthinkable. 

Lesdiguieres  the  invincible  appeared  before  Vence, 
surrounded  it  with  his  troops  and  his  cannon  and  laid 
siege  to  it.  It  must  have  been  a  terrific  conflict,  for 
so  much  depended  upon  the  issue,  and  the  Vengois  were 
well  aware  what  would  happen  to  them  and  their  town 
if  once  the  Huguenot  captain  got  possession  of  the  gates. 

Beyond  the  fact  that  the  loss  on  the  side  of  the 
besiegers  was  very  great,  no  details  as  to  the  actual 
storming  of  the  city  nor  of  the  deeds  of  the  defenders 
have  survived.  What  is  known  is  that  the  great  adventure 
failed.  The  doughty  Lesdiguieres,  hitherto  invincible, 
raised  the  siege  and  retired  again  to  the  south  beyond 
the  Esterels. 

Vence  was  saved,  the  prestige  of  the  Church  upheld, 
and  a  turn  was  given  to  events  which  can  only  be 
appreciated  by  imagining  what  would  have  been  the 
history  of  Provence,  and  possibly  of  France,  had  the 
faithful  city  fallen. 

Many  of  the  Huguenot  leaders  and  adherents  rejoined 
the  Church  of  Rome,  old  family  feuds  were  forgotten, 
old  friends  shook  hands  again  who  had  shunned  one 
another  for  years,  the  Huguenot  lover  became  Catholic 
and  led  his  bride  to  the  very  altar  he  had  fought  to 
destroy.  Even  that  hardy  fighting  man,  the  fierce, 
impetuous  Lesdiguieres,  came  back  to  the  Church  of 
Rome.  He  was,  it  is  true,  long  in  coming,  for  his 
reconciliation  was  not  made  until  forty  years  had  passed 
after  the  great  failure  of  his  life  before  the  walls  of 
Vence. 


58 


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IX 

VENCE,    THE   TOWN 

ON  the  bend  of  a  pleasant  road  some  thirteen  miles 
from  Nice  stands  Vence,  1,065  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  Mediterranean.  It  is  a  little  place  of 
about  three  thousand  inhabitants,  on  the  crown  of  a  hill 
in  a  land  of  hills.  Behind  it  rise  precipitous  heights 
which  shield  it  from  the  north,  .while  in  front  of  it  is 
an  undulating  country  of  pine  wood  and  dale  that  rolls 
lazily  to  the  sea.  Vence  consists  of  two  parts,  the  old 
town  and  the  new.  The  old  town  is  a  mere  appendage 
to  the  new,  and  may  be  compared  to  an  ancient  reliquary 
attached  to  a  gaudy  piece  of  electro-plate  in  the  modern 
taste. 

The  old  town  was  entirely  surrounded  by  ramparts 
built  in  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries.  On  the 
summit  of  these  was  a  broad  way,  where  the  defenders 
mustered  when  the  town  was  attacked.  Upon  the  northern 
front  a  considerable  portion  of  the  ancient  ramparts  still 
exists,  while  the  terrace  that  capped  them  has  become  a 
modest  promenade.  Within  and  above  the  ramparts  rose 
the  town,  like  a  castle  of  stone  elliptical  in  shape.  To  the 
outer  world  it  presented  only  a  lofty  and  continuous  wall, 
entered  by  certain  gates,  and  strengthened  here  and 
there  by  towers.  The  wall  represented  the  backs  of  the 
outer  houses  welded  together  in  one  unbroken  barrier. 

^9 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

The  fronts  of  these  houses  looked  into  narrow  streets, 
but  the  outer  wall  was  blank  and  blind,  being  pierced 
only  by  a  few  small  windows,  high  above  the  reach  of 
attack,  and  by  long,  narrow,  vertical  slits  as  the  ground 
was  neared. 

These  ancient  windows  and  these  slits  in  the  twall 
are  still  to  be  seen,  but  the  enceinte  has  been  broken 
in  many  places  by  casual  windows  of  recent  date  and 
even  by  doors.  Still,  the  walls  of  Vence — as  viewed 
from  the  north  of  the  town — ^have  an  aspect  which  has 
altered  but  little  during  the  last  four  hundred  years. 
They  have  aged,  of  course,  but  the  gates  are  there  and 
the  towers  still  stand. 

It  is  on  the  southern  side  of  Vence  that  the  hand  of 
the  town-improver  has  fallen  most  heavily,  but  even 
here  the  ruin  wrought  by  "  reconstruction ''  has  not 
obliterated  the  ancient  landmarks.  The  Boulevard 
Marcelin-Maurel,  where  the  tramways  run,  follows  the 
course  of  the  southern  ramparts.  The  wall  on  this  side 
has  been  battered  in  to  provide  up-to-date  houses  and 
up-to-date  shops,  but  yet  the  line  of  the  old  enceinte 
remains  unshaken,  for  the  hustling,  irreverent  tram  is 
compelled  to  humbly  follow  the  curve  of  the  town  jvall 
as  laid  down  six  centuries  ago. 

On  reaching  Vence  by  the  Nice  road  the  first  gate 
that  is  come  upon  is  the  Signadour  Gate,  which  stands 
almost  on  the  tram-Hnes.  It  is  a  gate  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  with  a  pointed  arch,  and  it  opens  at  the  base 
of  a  rough,  old  tower.  Some  way  to  the  right  of  it  is 
the  East  Gate,  which  is  much  more  ample,  has  a  rounded 
arch,  and  passes  directly  through  the  outer  wall  into  the 
mysterious  shadows  of  the  town.     It  is  credited  to  the 

60 


Vence,  the  Town 

eighteenth  century.^  At  the  opposite  end  of  Vence  is  the 
Portail  du  Peyra,  guarded  by  a  very  massive  square 
tower  of  great  height.  The  gate  belongs  to  the  days  of 
the  good  King  Rene,  who  died  in  1480,  and  the  tower  to 
the  seventeenth  century.  The  gate  has  evidently  been 
much  restored  and,  indeed,  reconstructed.  It  leads  into 
the  Place  du  Peyra,  a  quiet  square  shaded  by  a  chestnut 
tree  and  charmed  by  the  babble  of  a  fountain  in  the  form 
of  a  vase,  from  which  issues  four  streams.  The  name 
of  this  ancient  lounging  place  has  been  recently  (and 
rather  precipitately)  changed  to  Place  Wilson.  A  very 
picturesque  Httle  gate,  called  the  Portail  Levis,  opens 
on  to  the  ramparts  towards  the  north.  It  has  a  pointed 
arch  of  the  fourteenth  century  and  a  channel  in  the 
masonry  for  a  portcullis.  It  leads  into  the  Rue  de  la  Coste, 
one  of  the  oldest  of  the  old  lanes  of  the  town.  In  the 
Boulevard  Marcelin-Maurel  (which,  as  already  stated,  is 
laid  on  the  site  of  the  mediaeval  ramparts)  is  a  modern 
gate,  with  the  date  1863.  It  has  been  driven  through 
the  houses  which  here  form  the  enceinte  of  the  town  and 
opens  almost  directly  into  the  church  square. 

The  church  at  Vence  has  many  peculiarities,  not  the 
least  being  the  way  in  which  it  has  hidden  itself  from 
the  eyes  of  the  world.  It  is  so  surrounded  by  parasitic 
buildings  that  nothing  of  it  can  be  seen  from  the  outside 
except  a  gable  end,  which  projects  fortuitously  into 
another  square.  Indeed,  the  only  outward  and  visible 
sign  of  the  church  is  a  door,  surmounted  by  an  image 
of  the  Virgin,  jammed  in  between  a  cafe  and  a  blank 
wall.     The  blank  wall  belongs  to  a  seminary,  one  of  the 

* "  Vence,"  by  J.  D.,  sold  for  the  benefit  of  the  Church  and  published  at 
Vence  in  1914.     It  is  referred  to  in  the  text  as  "  The  Vence  Handbook." 

6i 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

buiWings  with  which  the  church  is  encrusted.  This 
building  directly  faces  the  new  mairie,  a  very  startling 
and  effusive  erection  which  stands  where  once  stood  a 
wing  of  the  bishop's  palace.  Between  the  schoolhouse 
and  the  exuberant  mairie  are  two  dark,  picturesque  arches 
under  a  house.  They  represent  what  remains  of  the  court 
of  the  palace,  while  the  building  above  them  is  a  part  of 
the  palace  itself.  The  other  side  of  this  old  house,  having 
been  left  undisfigured,  serves  to  show  how  stately  a 
structure  was  this  eveche  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

Now  on  that  wall  of  the  seminary  which  immediately 
faces  the  unblushing  mairie  will  be  found  the  Roman 
inscriptions  to  which  reference  has  been  made  in  the 
previous  chapter  (inscriptions  dealing  with  the  Taurobo- 
lium  and  with  Valerianus  and  his  wife  Vibia).  Here  also 
are  preserved  certain  carved  tablets  showing  an  interlace- 
ment of  grapes  and  roses,  mingled  with  confused  birds; 
while  above  is  a  smaller  stone  on  which  is  depicted  an 
archaic  eagle  of  doubtful  anatomy.  These  carvings  are 
generally  described  as  Merovingian  (a.d.  500-750),  but 
the  author  of  the  Vence  Handbook  inclines  to  the  view 
that  they  are  Romano-Byzantine,  and  suggests  that  they 
may  have  belonged  to  a  church  that  stood  on  this  spot  in 
the  fifth  century. 

A  Christian  church  of  some  kind  has  existed  at  Vence 
since  the  fourth  century,  for  the  first  bishop  of  Vence,  St. 
Eusebius,  held  office  in  the  year  374.  The  present  church 
dates  from  the  tenth  century,  although  that  which  now 
stands  belongs  to  a  period  between  the  twelfth  and  the 
fifteenth.  On  entering  the  building  there  is  at  once  a 
sense  of  being  in  a  place  of  great  antiquity.  No  church 
in  this  part  of  France  conveys  so  striking  an  impression 

62 


H 

o 
u 

< 

Q 

oi 


u 
z 

> 


i         All  '     i , 


fed. 


Q 
O 

o 

w 
u 

E 

H 


o 

Q 
O 


U 
Z 


Vence,  the  Town 

of  old  age.  It  is  dark  and  crypt-like  and,  above  all, 
primitive.  On  each  side  of  the  nave  are  immense  square 
pillars  supporting  round  arches.  The  pillars  are  without 
capitals  and  without  a  trace  of  ornament.  There  are 
two  side  aisles  roofed  over  by  a  wide  gallery  which  looks 
into  the  nave  through  the  line  of  arches.  The  galleries 
were  erected  in  the  fifteenth  century  to  accommodate  an 
increasing  congregation.  On  each  side  of  these  aisles  is 
still  another  aisle,  which  is  narrow  and  dark  and  in  which 
are  the  chapels.  The  church,  therefore,  is  represented 
by  a  nave  and  four  aisles. 

The  side  chapels  are  all  old  and  beautifully  decorated. 
One  chapel  contains  the  body  of  St.  Veran,  who  died  in 
492.  The  tomb — which  forms  also  the  altar — is  a  Roman 
sarcophagus.  It  presents  some  mysterious  carving  which 
is  thus  described  in  the  Vence  Handbook  :  In  the  centre 
are  the  busts  of  a  man  and  a  young  woman  enclosed  in  a 
large  sea-shell.  Below  is  a  bird  and  three  naked  children 
playing.  The  rest  of  the  surface  is  occupied  by  the  waves 
of  the  sea.  It  may  be  conjectured  that  it  was  the  last 
resting-place  of  a  lover  of  the  sea,  who  would  wish  to 
sleep  with  the  waves  about  him,  with  a  bird  in  the  blue 
and  with  children  at  play  on  the  sand.  The  high  altar 
is  of  marble  of  many  colours  and  the  tabernacle  is 
surmounted  by  angels'  heads  in  white.  By  the  altar  are 
the  tombs  of  the  Villeneuves,  the  Lords  of  Vence. 

The  west  end  of  the  church  presents  a  very  large 
gallery  or  tribune,  which  was  placed  there  at  the  close 
of  the  fifteenth  century.  Here  are  the  famous  choir  stalls 
which  were  transferred  from  the  choir  at  the  same  period. 
These  stalls,  fifty-one  in  number,  are  of  dark  oak  and  are 
most  elaborately  wrought.     Besides  much  architectural 

63 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

•detail  there  are  innumerable  carvings  of  animals  and 
plants,  of  human  figures  and  of  vague  incidents.  Some 
details,  as  the  writer  of  the  Handbook  says,  are  serious, 
others  are  amusing,  and  a  few  are  not  *'  tres  convenahles.^* 
These  exquisite  stalls  were  the  work  of  Jacques  Bellot  of 
Grasse.  He  commenced  the  work,  according  to  Mr. 
Kaye,^  in  1455,  when  he  was  twenty-five  years  of  age,  and 
completed  it  in  1495.  He  was,  therefore,  twenty-five 
when  the  work  began  and  sixty-five  when  it  was  finished. 

In  this  gallery  also  is  a  very  fine  lectern,  which  is 
claimed  to  be  even  an  earlier  work  than  the  stalls.  In 
one  of  the  chapels  of  the  church  (the  Chapelle  des  Saints- 
Anges)  is  the  wondrously  carved  door  of  the  prevote  or 
chapter  house.  This  work  is  older  than  the  stalls  and  is 
generally  ascribed  to  the  artist  who  fashioned  the  lectern. 
Certain  Roman  figures  or  statuettes  are  to  be  found  in 
the  church,  one  let  into  the  pillar  before  the  chapel  of 
St.  Veran,  and  another,  that  of  a  senator,  in  the  .wall 
between  this  chapel  and  that  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 

Behind  the  church  is  a  poor,  distracted-looking  square, 
once  the  cemetery,  now  the  Place  Godeau.  It  is  shaded 
by  three  large  chestnut  trees  and  contains  some  ancient 
houses,  one  notably  with  a  two-arched  Romanesque 
window  and  another  with  the  date  1524  carved  above  the 
doorway.  In  the  centre  is  a  disconsolate  column  of  bluish 
granite  to  which  is  ignominiously  fixed  a  brass  water-tap. 
This  column  seems  to  have  wandered  from  some  museum 
and  to  have  lost  both  its  way  and  its  label.  There  are 
those  who  affirm  that  it  was  a  gift  of  the  Phocaeans  to 
the  ancient  town,  others  that  it  came  from  the  temple  of 
Mars;  while  those  who  range  less  far  believe  it  to  be  a 

»  "  Grasse  and  its  Vicinity,"  by  Walter  J.  Kaye,  1912. 

64 


Vence,  the  Town 

Roman  boundary  stone  or  home.  From  this  Place  can 
be  seen  the  great  watch  tower  of  Vence,  often  called  the 
tower  of  the  castle.  It  is  square  and  very  severely  plain, 
and  contains  the  belfry  and  a  too  modern  clock.  The 
tower  belongs  to  the  fifteenth  century,  or  to  even  an 
earlier  period.  From  this  square  can  also  be  seen  a  little 
lancet  window  of  the  church  which  is  perhaps  the  oldest 
of  its  present  lights. 

The  to>vn  of  old  Vence  is  small  and  cramped.  Around 
the  church,  crushed  in  between  it  and  the  city  wall,  is 
a  maze  of  small  streets.  They  still  maintain  the  lines 
they  followed  long  before  the  day  when — in  England — 
Elizabeth  was  queen.  They  are  narrow,  of  course,  and 
dark  and  crowded  with  houses  of  great  age,  houses  of  such 
antiquity  that  no  modern  mask  can  hide  the  hollow  eyes 
or  the  shrunken  cheeks.  There  are  among  them  hand- 
some windows  and  fine  entries,  good  mason's  work  and 
some  decoration  pitiable  in  its  playfulness. 

The  place  is  almost  empty.  Certain  houses  are 
deserted ;  a  few  are  ruinous,  and  in  these  the  black,  blank 
windows  glare  like  the  eye-sockets  of  a  skull.  Many  show 
the  tottering  deformities  of  age  and  have  become  crippled, 
wizened  and  bent. 

This   almost   silent   city   once   held   seven   thousand 

people.     Its  streets  were  then  crowded,  full  of  life  and 

colour,  of  fair  women  and  stalwart  men.     The  wayfarer 

would  need  squeeze  himself  into  a  doorway  to  allow  the 

lady  in  a  litter  to  pass  by,  or  to  make  room  for  a  company 

of  young  gallants  rollicking  along  arm  in  arm,  or  for  the 

wedding  party  on  its  way  to  the  cathedral  close.     The 

place  is  now  hushed  like  a  house  of  mourning,  while  in 

many  a  lane  there  may  be  no  one  to  be  seen. 
F  65 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

He  who  strolls  alone  through  the  city  of  Vence  may 
find  himself  carried  back  into  the  past  by  some  nightmare 
witchery,  and  imagine  that  he  wanders  in  a  strange 
country,  amid  the  scenes  of  a  half -forgotten  tale.  There 
is  about  the  streets  the  faint,  musty  smell  that  clings  to 
the  leaves  of  an  ancient  missal  or  that  hovers  about  the 
worm-eaten  chest  stuffed  with  lumber.  To  read  the  life 
of  the  town  as  it  was  in  earlier  times  is  like  the  turning 
over  of  a  bundle  of  old  letters  that  are  fragmentary  and 
partly  illegible,  that  are  strange  in  both  the  wording  and 
the  script,  but  that  show  now  and  then  a  sudden  light  that 
illumines  the  figure  of  a  man  or  a  woman  who  stands  out 
amidst  the  gloom — alive. 


66 


X 

GRASSE 

GRASSE  lies  on  a  green  slope  at  the  foot  of  shelter- 
ing hills  and  in  full  view  of  the  sea.  From  its 
height  of  one  thousand  feet  a  glorious  stretch 
of  undulating  country  sweeps  down  to  the  Mediterranean, 
some  seven  or  eight  miles  to  the  south.  The  position 
of  the  town  is  suggestive  of  great  ease.  It  is  comparable 
to  that  of  a  man  stretched  out  on  a  bank  in  the  sun, 
with  his  hands  under  his  head,  his  hat  tilted  over  his 
eyes  and  with  a  rock  behind  him  to  ward  away  un- 
kindly winds.  It  is  a  gentle  and  contented  place,  quiet 
and  yet  busy  in  its  own  peculiar  way. 

The  history  of  Grasse  is  modest  and  unemotional. 
It  has  always  been  a  shy  town,  glad  to  be  left  alone 
and  to  keep  itself  untroubled  by  the  world.  It  does 
not  pretend  to  be  very  old.  It  is  said  that  Roman  coins 
have  been  discovered  in  Grasse,  but  this  means  little, 
for  that  imperious  but  careless  people  appear  to  have 
dropped  money  here  and  there  all  over  the  country. 
One  wonders  whether,  when  England  is  dug  up  by 
archaeologists  two  thousand  years  hence,  half-crowns  and 
coppers  will  be  found  among  the  ruins  of  its  towns  in 
anything  like  the  profusion  with  which  the  currency  of 
Rome  was  scattered. 

Grasse  appears  to  emerge  into  the  light  of  history 

67 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

some  time  in  the  twelfth  century  in  association  with 
Raymond  Berenger  and  his  famous  seneschal  Romee  de 
Villeneuve.  Its  reputation  has  been  largely  commercial. 
Terrin  in  the  "  Precis  de  I'Histoire  de  Provence  "^  says 
that  "  this  town  in  the  twelfth  century  supplied  the  whole 
of  France,  Italy  and  Spain  with  its  famous  leather,  soap 
and  oil  skilfully  purified";  while  another  author  goes 
further  and  affirms  "  that  the  whole  of  Europe  obtained 
its  soap  from  Grasse." 

Grasse  began  its  career  in  the  twelfth  century  as  a  little 
republic  in  alliance — for  purposes  of  mutual  protection 
— with  Pisa.  This  form  of  government  was  maintained 
until  1226.  When  wars  were  raging  in  the  country 
around  and  towns  were  being  besieged,  looted  or  burnt, 
Grasse  remained  unmoved.  It  looked  on  from  a  distance, 
lifted  its  hands  in  horror  and  went  on  with  its  soap- 
making.  It  was  never  a  quarrelsome  town  and  never 
ambitious  of  power.  It  was  more  keenly  concerned  with 
the  purity  of  its  oils  and  the  sweetness  of  its  scents.  It 
took  a  motherly  interest  in  its  unfortunate  neighbours 
and  became  a  place  of  refuge  for  troubled  people  along 
the  ever-troubled  coast. 

It  was  fortified,  but  not  in  too  serious  or  too  aggres- 
'^ive  a  way.  It  was  besieged,  but  always  in  a  com- 
paratively gentle  manner,  without  unnecessary  noise  and 
battering  of  walls  and  doors  and  with  casualties  that  may 
almost  be  called  complimentary.  One  siege  in  November, 
1589,  is  very  fully  described  in  the  diary  of  a  besieged 
resident,    a    certain    Monsieur    Rocomare.      Mr.    Kaye 

^  Quoted  by  Mr.  W.  J.  Kaye  in  his  excellent  work  on  "  Grasse  and  Its 
Vicinity,"  published  in  1912,  a  work  which  provides  a  good  summary  of  the 
history  of  the  town. 

68 


GRASSE  :    THE   DE   CABRIS   HOUSE. 


Grasse 

quotes  this  record  at  some  length.  The  attacking  general 
appears  to  have  been  wounded  early  in  the  fray  and  to 
have  "fallen  into  convulsions."  "Whereby,"  says  M. 
Rocomare,  "  the  whole  camp  was  thrown  into  confusion." 
The  siege  proceeded  in  spite  of  the  general's  fit.  When 
things  were  not  going  well  with  the  town  the  people  of 
Grasse  proposed — as  they  always  did — a  treaty.  It  was 
accepted.  By  this  agreement  the  men-at-arms  of  Grasse 
and  as  many  townsfolk  as  wished  were  allowed  to  leave 
the  city  with  the  honours  of  war  and  with  all  their 
baggage.  Unfortunately  the  attacking  army,  demoral- 
ised, it  may  be,  by  the  sight  of  their  general  in  convulT 
sions,  broke  their  compact,  seized  all  the  baggage  and 
horses  and  killed  no  fewer  than  seventeen  persons.  The 
besiegers  occupied  the  town  and  M.  Rocomare  had 
billeted  upon  him  a  cornet,  six  soldiers,  ten  serving  men, 
some  horses  and  a  mule.  This  forced  entertainment  cost 
him  260  golden  crowns ;  but,  worst  of  all,  the  ungrateful 
cornet,  on  taking  leave  of  his  host,  robbed  him  of  his 
cattle  and  of  "  other  things." 

In  the  bitter  religious  wars  of  the  time  which  rent 
and  racked  the  whole  adjacent  country,  Grasse  took  but 
little  part.  It  was  appropriately  shocked  at  the  spectacle 
of  Christians  fighting  and  then  went  on  with  its  soap- 
making.  The  people  of  Grasse,  however,  had  their  local 
religious  quarrels  which  seem  to  have  been  concerned 
not  with  matters  of  doctrine,  but  rather  with  questions 
of  fees  and  emoluments  and  especially  with  burial  fees. 
In  these  disputes  over  money  "  the  clergy,"  as  Mr.  Kaye 
remarks,  "  seemed  strangely  to  have  forgotten  their  high 
calling,"  for  they  actually  fought  for  the  possession  of 
coffins  containing  the  dead,  and  there  must  have  been 

69 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

regrettable  scenes  in  the  graveyard  when  the  clerics  and 
their  subordinates  were  engaged  in  what  was  practically 
a  tug-of-war  over  a  coffin. 

The  more  direct  afflictions  of  Grasse  arose  from  the 
passage  through  the  town  of  foreign  troops.  Over  and 
over  again  the  Cours  or  the  Place  Neuve  was  occupied 
by  bodies  of  armed  men,  who,  although  they  had  no 
especial  reason  for  hostile  action  against  Grasse,  yet 
behaved  in  a  very  trying  and  unseemly  manner.  They 
would  march  up  to  the  town  and,  without  adequate  ex- 
planation, would  demand  a  war  bonus  of  as  much  as 
36,000  livres  or  more.  They  would  billet  themselves  in 
the  town,  would  smash  windows,  break  tiles  and  carry 
off  doors.  For  what  purpose  an  army  on  the  march 
should  need  doors  is  not  made  clear;  but  that  the  in- 
truders should  cause  a  rise  in  the  cost  of  living  is  intel- 
ligible. A  writer  who  was  in  the  town  on  the  occasion 
of  one  of  these  visits  says,  with  disgust,  that  wine  cost 
40  centimes  a  pint,  brown  bread  25  centimes  a  pound, 
and  eggs  actually  15  centimes  each.  He  adds  a  remark 
which  shows  how,  even  in  little  things,  history  may  be 
anticipated,  for  he  says  :  "  All  our  fruit  trees  have  been 
burned  save  a  few  olive  trees  which  have  been  saved 
from  the  violence  of  the  Germans." 

The  old  town  of  Grasse  is  very  picturesque  and 
abounding  in  interest.  Being  placed  upon  a  slope,  it 
comes  to  pass  that  its  ways  are  steep.  The  houses  are 
tall  and  the  lanes  are  narrow,  so  the  place  is  full  of 
shadows.  The  streets  ramble  and  wind  about  in  that 
leisurely  manner  which  is  characteristic  of  Grasse,  until 
they  become  a  veritable  tangle.  The  stranger  wander- 
ing through  Grasse  is  apt,  after  traversing  many  streets, 

70 


Grasse 

to  find  himself  in  the  exact  spot  whence  he  started. 
It  is  not  wise  to  ask  one's  way  in  Grasse,  but  merely  to 
drift  about,  from  lane  to  lane,  until  the  object  sought 
is  stumbled  on.  It  will  be  met  with  in  time.  There  are 
various  old  houses  to  be  seen  which  appertain  to  many 
periods.  Some  of  them  are  disguised  by  modern  plaster 
and  paint,  some  have  been  "  restored  "  to  the  point  of 
extinction,  while  not  a  few  are  represented  only  by 
fragments.  They  illustrate  the  effect  of  putting  new  wine 
into  old  bottles  :  ' '  the  bottles  break  and  the  wine  runneth 
out  and  the  bottles  perish." 

Of  the  old  ramparts  which  surrounded  the  town  in 
the  fourteenth  century  but  a  trace  or  two  remain,  although 
the  line  they  pursued  can  still  be  followed.  The  Boulevard 
du  Jeu  de  Ballon  represents  the  western  side  of  the 
enceinte,  and  the  Passage  Mirabeau  its  southern  part. 
Where  the  two  met  was  the  Porte  du  Cours.  The  eastern 
flank  is  indicated  by  the  Place  Neuve  and  La  Roque 
and  the  rounded  northern  end  by  the  Rue  des  Cordeliers 
and  the  Avenue  Maximin  Isnard.  Of  the  seven  original 
gates  two  only  survive — the  Porte  Neuve  (rebuilt  in  1793) 
and  the  Porte  de  la  Roque. 

The  chief  feature  of  Grasse  is  the  Cours,  a  charming 
promenade  just  outside  the  confines  of  the  old  town. 
It  is  here  that  the  band  plays  and  here  that  the  idler  can 
enjoy  the  superb  view  which  opens  out  to  the  sea  and 
admire — if  he  will — the  statue  to  Fragonard  which  adorns 
the  spot.  Leading  down  from  the  Cours  into  the  old 
town  is  the  Rue  du  Cours,  a  narrow  lane  of  little  shops. 
The  first  house  in  this  street — a  corner  house.  No.  2 — 
was  the  town  mansion  of  the  Marquis  de  Cabris  and  his 
startling  wife  Louise.     Some  account  of  this  mercurial 

71 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

lady  is  given  in  the  chapter  which  follows.  The  de  Cabris 
came  from  the  deUghtful  village  of  Cabris,  five  miles  from 
Grasse.  There  stands  what  remains  of  their  castle,  which 
was  reduced  to  a  heap  of  ruins  at  the  time  of  the 
Revolution. 

The  house  in  the  Rue  du  Cours  is  a  plain  building  of 
four  stories,  rising  from  a  base  of  stone.  It  is  of  con- 
siderable size  and  the  back  of  it  forms  a  large  block  in 
the  Passage  Mirabeau.  Its  portal  is  prim  and  severe 
and  in  a  strict  classical  style.  So  dull  is  this  entry  that 
it  is  hard  to  picture  the  frivolous  and  beautiful  Louise 
standing  on  the  door  step,  buttoning  up  her  gloves  and 
meditating  some  fresh  devilment.  It  is  a  house  that  no 
one  could  associate  with  the  thrilling  scandal  which 
buzzed  about  it  when  the  mocking  laughter  of  the  little 
marquise  could  be  heard  ringing  from  the  solemn 
windows.  The  house  is  now  occupied  by  offices  and  flats 
of  the  gravest  respectability.  As  if  some  odour  of  old 
days  still  clung  to  it,  the  walls,  I  noticed,  were  blazing 
with  red  and  yellow  posters  vaunting  the  attractions  of 
a  play  dealing  with  the  allurement  of  women. 

Almost  opposite  to  the  de  Cabris  mansion,  and  at 
the  extreme  end  of  the  Boulevard  du  Jeu  de  Ballon, 
is  the  ancient  house  of  the  de  Ponteves  family.  It  is  a 
huge,  square  building,  severely  plain  and  free  from  any 
pretence  at  decoration.  It  has  on  one  side  a  little  walled 
garden  which  abuts  on  the  Cours.  The  house  has  had 
a  gloomy  history.  It  was  at  one  time  the  headquarters 
of  the  executive  council  of  Var.  During  the  time  of 
the  Terror  (1793-4)  it  became  the  seat  of  the  Revolu- 
tionary Tribunal.  It  has  sheltered  Freron — he  who  had 
the  audacity  to  seek  the  hand  of  Pauline  Bonaparte — 

72 


i|^#,if!QKjr 


•fW^[ 


GRASSE:    THE    CATHEDRAL. 


Grasse 

as  well  as  Robespierre,  who  was  himself  guillotined  in 
1794.  In  its  salon  the  wretched  victims  denounced  by 
the  Revolution  were  tried,  cursed  at,  and  condemned, 
and  through  its  gate  they  were  marched  to  their  death 
by  the  guillotine.  The  guillotine  stood  in  the  Cours  on 
the  spot  now  occupied  by  the  statue  to  Fragonard.  The 
prisoners  who  looked  out  of  the  west  windows  of  the 
house  would  see  this  fearful  instrument  only  a  few  yards 
distant  and  would  see  also  the  howUng,  savage  mob  that 
surged  around  it.  Yet  between  the  condemned  andjheir 
place  of  death  was  the  comfort  of  the  little  quiet  garden 
shut  in  with  its  high  wall.  Thirty  people  in  all  were 
guillotined  at  Grasse  during  the  Terror,  and  among  them 
a  poor  nun  over  seventy  years  of  age,  whose  name,  by  a 
strange  coincidence,  was  de  Ponteves. 

When  peace  was  restored  to  France  the  Hotel  de 
Ponteves  became  the  municipal  library  and  later  on  (in 
1811)  it  was  swept  and  garnished  and  made  ready  to 
receive  the  Princess  Pauline  Bonaparte,  the  sister  of 
Napoleon  I.  This  beautiful  woman,  the  "  Venus  victrix  " 
of  Canova,  was  at  the  moment  forlorn  and  unhappy.  She 
had  been  deserted  by  her  second  husband,  the  Prince 
Borghese,  and  banished  from  the  Court  by  her  brother 
on  account  of  her  disrespectful  bearing  towards  the 
Empress.  She  was,  moreover,  ill  and  weary  both  in  body 
and  mind,  and  yet  she  was  only  thirty -one.  "  Out  of 
consideration  for  the  distinguished  invalid  the  silence  of 
the  early  morning  was  disturbed  neither  by  the  ringing  of 
bells  nor  by  the  cries  of  milk-sellers  in  the  streets ;  even 
the  mules  went  without  their  tinkling  sonnailles.^^  ^  One 
may  imagine  that  Pauhne  sat  often  in  the  little  garden 

1  "  Grasse  and  Its  Vicinity,"  by  W.  J.  Kaye,  1912,  p.  17. 

73 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

with  the  high  wall,  and  that  her  sedan  chair  would  now 
and  then  be  carried  to  the  Cours  so  that  she  might  by 
chance  get  a  glimpse  of  the  beloved  island  of  Corsica 
where  she  was  bom. 

Near  the  Cours  is  the  Boulevard  Fragonard.  In  the 
house  (No.  4)  of  the  Marquis  de  Villeneuve-Bargemon 
will  be  seen  the  beautiful  carved  door  that  came  from 
the  old  hotel  of  the  Marquis  de  Gourdon.  It  was  by 
the  removal  of  the  Gourdon  mansion  in  1858  that  the 
present  Place  du  Marche  was  made.  No.  15  Boulevard 
Fragonard — with  its  curious  iron  window  cages — was  the 
residence  of  the  famous  painter  after  whom  the  Boulevard 
is  named.  The  place  of  his  birth  was  No.  2  Rue  de  la 
Font  Neuve. 

Turning  out  of  the  Rue  du  Cours  is  the  Rue  Tracastel 
with  its  vaulted  arch  beneath  an  old  tower.  It  is  by 
way  of  this  lane  that  the  cathedral  square  may  be  reached. 
The  church,  which  is  the  most  beautiful  building  in 
Grasse,  was  completed  in  the  twelfth  century.  It  is  small 
and  low  and  its  western  fagade,  which  looks  upon  the 
square,  is  very  simple.  The  large  pointed  doorway  is 
approached  by  an  exquisite  double  flight  of  steps  with 
a  white  balustrade.  The  doors  themselves  are  finely 
carved  and  bear  the  date  1722.  There  are  two  lancet 
windows  on  this  front  and  traces  of  two  doors  of  the 
same  date  as  the  principal  one.  The  walls  are  of  light 
yellow-grey  stone.  The  church  within  is  as  gracious  as 
its  western  front.  The  nave  is  surmounted  by  a  hand- 
some groined  roof  with  square  ribs,  supported  by  heavy 
pillars  without  capitals.  The  arches  of  the  nave  are 
occupied  by  galleries  with  marble  railings  which  are  quite 
modern  and  painfully  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest  of  the 

74 


Grasse 

building.  The  south  transept  is  occupied  by  the  chapel 
of  the  Holy  Sacrament,  which  is  said  to  have  existed 
since  1448.  It  is  a  beautiful  chapel,  but  a  little  marred 
by  the  too  elaborate  ornament  of  a  later  date.  There 
are  many  pictures  of  interest  in  the  church,  the  most 
notable  being  Fragonard's  "  Washing  of  the  Disciples' 
Feet,"  painted  in  1754. 

The  church  contains  numerous  treasures  among  which 
is  a  reliquary  of  St.  Honorat,  shaped  like  a  house  and 
carved  out  of  a  solid  block  of  walnut  some  three  feet 
in  length.  It  dates  from  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth 
century.^ 

The  belfry  of  the  church  is  in  the  form  of  a  tall, 
white  tower,  square  and  severely  simple.  It  is  one  of 
the  landmarks  of  Grasse.  It  dates  from  1368,  but  .was 
shattered  by  lightning  in  1742  and  rebuilt  at  that  period. 

Close  to  the  cathedral  is  the  tower  of  Grasse,  the 
Tour  du  Puy,  an  ancient  watch  tower  raised  on  Roman 
foundations.  It  too  is  square  and  plain,  but  almost 
black  in  colour  and  very  menacing  by  reason  of  its  great 
height  and  its  massive  strength.  It  is  a  veritable  bully 
of  a  tower  and  forms  a  harsh  contrast  with  the  pale, 
delicately  moulded  and  fragile-looking  little  church.  It 
has  certain  modern  windows,  made  still  more  incongruous 
by  sun-shutters  and  by  the  ancient  Romanesque  .windows 
which  find  a  place  by  the  side  of  them. 

There  is  a  marble  tablet  on  the  Tour  du  Puy  which 
is  of  some  interest.  It  is  to  the  immortal  memory  of 
Bellaud  de  la  Bellaudiere.  The  holder  of  this  most 
sonorous  name  was  a  poet.     He  was  born  in  1532.     He 

*  A  photograph  and  description  of  this  remarkable  relic  will  be  found  in 
Mr.  Kaye's  book. 

75 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

appears  to  have  played  in  Grasse  the  parts  of  Dr.  Jekyll 
and  Mr.  Hyde ;  for  when  he  was  not  engaged  in  writing 
emotional  ballads  he  occupied  himself  with  thieving.  He 
did  well  in  both  of  these  pursuits.  As  a  poet  he  was 
honoured  by  this  tablet  on  the  tower;  as  a  robber  he 
came  to  the  gallows  and  was  hanged  by  the  neck. 

The  Rue  Droite,  the  main  highway  of  old  Grasse,  is 
a  narrow  lane  of  small  shops  that  continues  the  Rue  du 
Cours.  It  is  not  so  straight  as  its  name  suggests,  being, 
indeed,  a  little  unsteady.  It  contains  many  old  houses 
of  interest  with  fine  stone  doorways,  some  with  a  rounded 
and  others  with  a  pointed  arch.  Over  one  entry  is  the 
date  1527.  At  No.  24  lived  Doria  de  Roberti  who  in 
1580  had  the  distinction  of  being  both  physician  to  the 
king  and  perfumer  to  the  queen,  a  position  which,  at 
the  present  day,  would  be  one  of  great  professional  per- 
plexity. The  house  is  not  worthy  of  one  who  is  de- 
scribed as  "  the  earliest  known  perfumer"  ;  for  it  is  quite 
modern  in  aspect  and  is  given  up  jointly  to  a  cafe  and 
to  a  shop  where  ready-made  clothes  for  women  are  sold. 
No.  28  is  a  fine  house,  with  an  ancient  doorway  which 
is  said  to  have  borne  the  date  1622 ;  while  the  portal  of 
No.  82  has  a  dignity  which — as  is  often  the  case — the  rest 
of  the  building  does  not  maintain. 

From  the  Rue  Droite  the  interesting  Rue  de  I'Oratoire 
leads,  after  some  vacillation,  to  the  Place  aux  Aires. 
This  is  a  very  charming  little  square,  occupied  in  the 
centre  by  a  double  row  of  trees  and,  at  the  far  extremity, 
by  a  fountain.  The  end  of  the  tiny  Place  which  faces 
the  fountain  has  an  interest  which  is  not  apparent  to  the 
eye.  It  is  occupied  by  three  quite  modest  houses,  num- 
bered 37,  39  and  41.     No.  37  is  a  ladies'  hat  shop.  No.  39 

76 


GRASSE  :    THE    PLAGE   AUX   AIRES. 


Grasse 

is  a  draper's  ,with  the  inviting  name  '*  Au  grand  Paris  " 
and  No.  41  is  tenanted  by  a  butcher.  These  three  humble 
shops  represent  the  spot  upon  which  stood  no  less  a  build- 
ing than  the  palace  of  Queen  Jeanne  and,  indeed,  in  the 
house  No.  41  can  be  seen  her  kitchen  stairs — a  poor  relic 
but  the  only  one.  In  the  chapter  which  follows  some 
account  is  given  of  this  remarkable  and  alarming  woman 
and  of  certain  things  that  she  did. 

Of  the  many  other  interesting  streets  of  Grasse  it  is 
impossible  to  speak  in  detail,  except  to  draw  attention 
to  the  fine  Romanesque  windows  in  the  Rue  Mougins- 
Roquefort  and  to  those  picturesque  streets  Rue  sans  Peur 
and  Rue  Reve  Vieille  which  are  more  curious  even  than 
their  unusual  names. 

Most  fascinating  of  all  is  the  Rue  de  I'Eveche.  It  is 
a  street  of  the  Middle  Ages,  little  changed  and  little 
spoiled.  It  is  a  mystery  street  full  of  romance  and  sug- 
gestion. It  makes  one  draw  one's  breath.  It  recalls  so 
vividly  a  score  of  tales  of  mediaeval  days ;  for  it  is  just  that 
narrow,  winding,  dim  and  haunting  lane  where  thrilling 
things  always  happened — stabbings  in  the  dark,  pursuits 
with  torches  and  the  clang  of  arms,  whisperings  of  cloaked 
conspirators,  the  beckoning  hand  and  the  lover  with  the 
panting  lady  in  the  hood. 

The  business  of  Grasse,  as  is  well  known,  is  the  making 
of  scent,  soap  and  refined  oil.  It  is  an  ancient,  famous 
and  most  prosperous  industry.  The  quantity  of  flowers 
consumed  in  the  perfumeries  is  so  vast  as  to  be  hard  to 
realise. 

Mr.  Kaye  states,  in  a  quiet  way  and  without  con- 
cern, that  four  million  pounds  of  orange  blossoms  and 
three  million  pounds  of  roses — to  name  no  others — are 

77 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Bwept  into  the  iron  maw  of  the  factory  every  year. 
Weight  is  a  little  misleading  when  it  deals  with  rose  leaves 
•and  mimosa  blossoms  so  Mr.  Kaye  explains  that,  as 
regards  jasmine  alone,  nine  billions  six  hundred  millions 
of  jasmine  flowers  are  picked  by  hand  every  year  to 
provide  the  world  with  the  jasmin  perfume. 

"  The  flower  harvest,"  he  writes,  "  lasts  nearly  the 
whole  year  round.  It  begins  in  February  with  the  violet 
which  lasts  till  April.  In  March  and  April  also  hyacinths 
and  jonquils  are  plucked.  May  marks  the  greatest  activity 
in  the  harvest  of  roses  and  orange  flowers,  which  harvest 
terminates  usually  in  June.  Mignonette  and  carnations 
are  also  gathered  in  this  month.  The  jasmine  is  gathered 
in  July,  and  the  harvest  lasts  generally  till  October 
10th.  The  tuberose  is  also  picked  during  August  and 
September.'* 

As  the  country  for  miles  around  Grasse  is  given  up 
to  the  cultivation  of  flowers  it  may  be  assumed  that  the 
town  lies  in  a  Garden  of  Eden,  dazzling  with  colour  and 
laden  with  the  perfumes  of  Araby.  But  it  realises  no 
such  vision  ;  since  flowers  grown  for  commerce,  drilled  into 
unfeeling  lines  and  treated  like  the  turnip  of  the  field, 
are  very  different  from  those  grown  for  pleasure  and  those 
that  blossom,  by  their  own  sweet  will,  in  the  wilds.  They 
differ  as  a  crate  of  violets  knocked  down  to  the 
auctioneer's  hammer  at  Covent  Garden  differs  from  the 
shy,  purple  flowers  that  fringe  a  scented  passage  through 
a  wood. 

Those  who  have  any  regard  for  flowers  should  avoid 
a  perfume  factory  as  they  would  a  slaughter-house ;  for 
it  is  not  pleasant  to  see  a  white  company  of  soft  orange 
blossoms  lying  dead  at  the  bottom  of  a  pit,  sodden  and 

78 


GRASSE  :    RUE   DE   L'EVEGHE. 


Grasse 

macerated,  nor  to  watch  roses  being  slowly  boiled  alive, 
nor  jasmine  flowers  crushed  to  death  upon  the  rack. 

Many  hundreds  of  day-tourists  pour  through  Grasse 
during  the  months  of  the  winter.  They  come  by  char-a- 
bancs  and  motor-brakes.  Their  stay  in  the  town  is  very 
brief,  for  the  ' '  excursion  to  Grasse  ' '  embraces  much  in 
its  breathless  flight.  They  are  deposited  at  a  scent  factory 
by  a  not  disinterested  driver,  and  there  they  purchase  soap 
with  eagerness,  as  if  it  were  the  bread  of  life.  Ninety- 
nine  per  cent,  of  these  soap-questing  pilgrims  do  not  go 
beyond  the  factory  which  they  appear  to  regard  as  a  sort 
of  shrine,  even  though  its  odour  is  not  that  of  sanctity. 
To  just  one  out  of  the  hundred  the  idea  may  occur  that 
soap  of  quite  fair  quality  may  be  obtained  in  many  places 
— even  in  Brixton  in  England — but  that  in  few  places 
can  there  be  found  an  old  French  city  so  full  of  picturesque 
memories  and  possessed  of  so  exquisite  a  cathedral  as 
Grasse  provides.  From  a  hygienic  point  of  view  the 
triumph  of  soap  over  sentiment  is  commendable,  but  the 
hygienic  attitude  of  mind  is  one  of  rigour  and  offensive 
superiority.  The  one  tourist  out  of  the  hundred  wanders 
into  the  ancient  town,  loses  his  way,  loses  his  char-a-banc 
and  returns  by  the  tramcar,  with  his  mind  full  of  charming 
recollections  but  his  pocket  empty  of  soap.  While  he 
glories  over  the  romance  of  mediaeval  by-ways  his  fellow- 
tourists  gloat  over  a  wash-hand  basin  or  a  pungent 
handkerchief. 


79 


XI 

A   PRIME   MINISTER   AND    TWO    LADIES    OF   GRASSE 

ROMEE  DE  VILLENEUVE.— There  is  a  some- 
what picturesque  story  in  the  old  chronicles  relating 
to  one  Romee  de  Villeneuve,  seneschal  of  Grasse 
and  the  premier  ministre  of  the  Count  of  Provence.^  The 
count  with  whom  the  story  deals  was  Raymond  Berenger 
IV,  who  came  into  power  in  1209  and  died  in  1245.  This 
Raymond  was  the  husband  of  the  beautiful  Beatrix  of 
Savoy — the  same  Beatrix  who  inspired  the  passionate 
verses  of  the  troubadour  of  Eze. 

Raymond  the  count  when  walking  one  day  through 
the  streets  of  Grasse  came  upon  a  pilgrim.  The  pious 
man  was  dressed  in  the  robe  of  his  brotherhood.  In  his 
hand  was  a  long  staff ;  upon  his  feet  were  sandals  and  in 
his  hat  the  cockleshell.  The  count  was  struck  by  his 
carriage  and  by  the  nobility  of  his  appearance.  He 
stopped  him  and  questioned  him  as  to  his  pilgrimage,  as 
to  the  things  that  he  had  seen  and  learned  in  his  journey 
through  many  countries  and  by  way  of  many  roads.  The 
answers  that  the  pilgrim  gave  pleased  him.  He  was  im- 
pressed by  his  intelligence,  by  the  gentleness  of  his  manner 
and  the  graceful  sentiment  that  accompanied  his  talk.  It 
was  agreeable  to  converse  with  a  man  who  had  seen  strange 
cities  and  who  had  gleaned  such  curious  grains  of  wisdom 

1  "  Contes  Populaires  des  Proven?aux,"  by  Beranger-Feraud,  1887. 

8o 


A  Prime  Minister  and  Two  Ladies  of  Grasse 

in  his  tramp  through  valley  and  wood,  by  stony  paths  and 
smooth. 

The  count  talked  longer  with  the  pilgrim  than  the 
courtiers  liked.  They  frowned  and  fidgeted,  scuffled 
with  their  feet,  assumed  attitudes  of  weariness  and  talked 
among  themselves  rather  audibly  about  "this  fellow.'* 
Finally  the  count  asked  the  pilgrim  if  he  would  come  into 
his  service  and  the  worthy  man,  after  some  hesitation  and 
with  proper  expressions  of  respect,  consented. 

Romee  had  not  been  long  under  the  castle  roof  before 
Raymond  recognised  his  ability  and  his  absolute  upright- 
ness. The  count  and  the  pilgrim  became  more  than 
master  and  servant ;  they  became  friends.  Many  a  time 
the  two  would  sit  in  a  corner  of  the  terrace  when  the  heat 
of  the  day  was  over  and  Romee  would  tell  of  the  wonders 
of  the  Eternal  City,  of  the  street  fighting  he  had  seen  in 
Florence  between  the  Amidei  and  the  Buondelmonte,  of 
the  new  church  of  San  Giovanni  at  Pistoia,  of  the  won- 
derful bell  tower  they  were  building  at  Pisa,  and  of  the 
ruins  of  the  palace  of  Theodoric  the  Great  that  he  had 
wandered  among  at  Ravenna.  He  would  talk  too  of 
strange  things,  of  the  savage,  mist-enveloped  island  of 
England  where  the  cliffs  were  white,  of  the  flight  of  birds, 
of  wondrous  flowers  that  bloomed  among  the  snow,  of  the 
hiving  of  bees,  of  the  curious  ways  of  women. 

Year  by  year  the  pilgrim  rose  in  power ;  year  by  year 
he  took  a  wider  part  in  the  affairs  of  state ;  and  year 
by  year  the  affection  that  bound  the  two  men  together 
deepened  and  gained  in  strength.  Romee  became  the 
count's  most  trusted  counsellor  and  confidant,  and,  in  due 
course,  was  raised  to  the  position  of  premier  ministre  and 
seneschal  of  Grasse. 

G  8i 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

This  was  a  terrible  blow  to  the  courtiers,  the  last  straw 
that  broke  the  back  of  their  restraint.  They  had  always 
been  jealous  of  this  interloper  and  hated  him  heartily  and 
openly.  To  see  the  most  dignified  office  that  the  Court 
of  Provence  could  grant  bestowed  upon  a  stranger,  a  man 
stumbled  upon  in  the  street,  was  beyond  endurance.  The 
count  was  bewitched  and  befooled,  they  said,  and  must 
be  awakened  from  his  evil  dream. 

The  courtiers  took  the  matter  of  the  enlightenment 
of  their  prince  in  hand.  They  began  to  hint  at  things, 
to  sow  suspicions,  to  raise  subjects  for  inquiry.  Did  the 
count  know  anything  of  this  man,  anything  of  his 
parentage  or  antecedents?  The  count  knew  only  that 
Romee  was  a  man  noble  in  heart  and  mind,  his  trusted 
counsellor  and  esteemed  friend. 

No  seed  grows  so  quickly  as  the  seed  of  doubt.  No 
hint  but  gains  strength  by  repetition.  Those  about  the 
Court,  judging  that  the  count's  confidence  must  be  shaken 
by  their  efforts,  ventured  to  go  beyond  hinting  and 
whispering  and  the  shrugging  of  shoulders.  They  came 
one  day  boldly  before  him  and  said  that  Romee  was  taking 
money  from  the  treasury,  was  in  fact  robbing  the  State. 
The  count  was  furious  that  so  disgraceful  a  charge  should 
be  made  against  his  favourite,  told  the  informers  that  they 
lied  and  demanded  instant  grounds  for  their  base  charges. 
The  spokesman  of  the  party  replied  that  the  minister  kept, 
in  his  private  room,  a  coffer  which  he  allowed  no  one  to 
touch  and  which  no  one  had  ever  seen  open.  From  sounds 
heard  at  night  by  listeners  outside  the  door  there  was  little 
doubt  that  in  this  chest  Romee  was  hoarding  money 
pilfered  from  the  treasury. 

The  speaker,  with  a  bow,  humbly  suggested  that  his 

82 


A  Prime  Minister  and  Two  Ladies  of  Grasse 

lordship  should  come  with  them  at  once  to  the  minister's 
room  and  request  him  to  open  the  coffer.  The  count 
stamped  and  swore.  He  would  never  subject  his  friend 
to  such  an  indignity.  De  Villeneuve  was  as  far  above 
suspicion  as  himself.  The  proposal  was  monstrous. 
Some  soft-voiced  officer  then  hinted  that  the  minister 
would  be  glad  to  put  an  end  to  these  unfortunate  but 
persistent  rumours  by  simply  opening  the  box.  This 
seemed  reasonable  to  the  count,  but  someone,  more  wily 
still,  whispered  in  his  ear  "Would  he  be  so  glad.''" 
The  seed  of  doubt,  long  sown  in  the  prince's  mind,  was 
beginning  to  break  into  baneful  blossom.  He  cried, 
"  No  more  of  this!  Come  with  me,  and  we  will  bring 
this  foul  matter  to  an  issue." 

They  all  made  for  the  minister's  room.  Romee  was 
sitting  alone.  He  rose  with  extreme  surprise  to  see  the 
count,  flushed  and  hard  of  face,  enter  with  this  company 
of  solemn  men — enemies  all — who  eyed  him  like  a  pack 
of  wolves.  The  count,  avoiding  the  gaze  of  his  favourite, 
pointed  at  once  to  the  coffer  and  said,  "  I  beg  you  to 
open  that  chest."  To  this  Romee  replied,  "My  lord,  I 
would  prefer,  by  your  grace,  not  to  open  it."  "  Why?  " 
demanded  the  prince.  "  Because  it  contains  a  treasure 
of  mine  that  is  dear  to  me  and  to  no  one  else."  The 
courtiers  began  to  whisper,  to  laugh,  to  jeer  under  their 
breath.  The  count,  stung  by  their  scoffing  murmurs, 
lost  his  head,  and  turning  to  his  minister  said  with  some 
sternness,  "  I  bid  you  to  open  that  chest."  Romee,  look- 
ing with  sadness  into  his  master's  eyes,  said  gently,  *'  My 
lord,  since  you  no  longer  trust  me,  I  will  open  the  box." 
He  withdrew  a  key  from  his  gown,  undid  the  lock,  and 
threw  wide  the  lid.     The  chest  was  empty  but  for  a  few 

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The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

sorry  things — a  dusty,  tattered  pilgrim's  frock,  two  worn 
sandals,  a  coarse  shirt  and  a  weather-stained  hat  with  a 
cockleshell  in  it.  These  were  the  things  he  wore  when 
Raymond  Berenger  met  him  in  the  street.  After  a 
moment  of  dreadful  silence  the  count,  turning  to  his 
courtiers,  said  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "  Leave  my  presence, 
you  scoundrels  too  mean  to  live." 

When  the  two  were  alone  the  prince,  placing  his  hands 
upon  Romee's  shoulders,  said,  "Dear  friend!  I  am 
humbled  to  the  dust.  I  am  more  sorry  than  any  words 
of  mine  can  tell.  Can  you  ever  forgive  me?  "  To  which 
the  one-time  pilgrim  replied,  "  My  lord,  I  forgive  you  a 
thousand  times  over ;  but  you  have  broken  my  heart,  and 
now,  in  God's  name,  leave  me  and  let  me  be  alone." 

There  and  then  Romee  de  Villeneuve  took  off  his  robes 
of  office  and,  having  donned  the  pilgrim's  dress  in  which 
he  had  arrived  at  the  castle,  made  his  way  out  of  the  gate 
into  the  open  road.  Raymond  Berenger  never  saw  him 
again.  Where  the  pilgrim  wandered  no  one  knows.  All 
that  the  chronicle  relates  is  that  he  died  in  the  castle  of 
Vence  and  that  his  will  was  dated  1250 — five  years  after 
the  death  of  the  count,  his  master. 

Many  a  time  in  the  days  that  followed  Romee 's 
disappearance  Count  Raymond  would  be  found  standing 
alone  in  a  certain  deserted  room  gazing  at  an  empty  coffer. 

Queen  Jeanne. — As  has  been  said  in  the  previous 
chapter,  there  was  in  the  Place  aux  Aires  at  Grasse  a 
palace  of  Queen  Jeanne,  who  died  in  1382.  When 
Jeanne  took  refuge  in  Provence  with  her  second  husband 
— after  the  murder  of  her  first — she  caused  this  palace  to 
be  built.     All  that  is  left  of  it,  at  the  present  day,  is  the 

84 


A  Prime  Minister  and  Two  Ladies  of  Grasse 

kitchen  stair  and  a  few  mouldings,  but,  writes  Miss 
Dempster,  "there  is  not  a  bare-foot  child  but  can  tell 
you  that  those  steps  belonged  to  the  palace  of  Queen 
Jeanne."  ^ 

There  is  no  evidence  that  this  meteoric  lady  ever  lived 
in  this  house  that  she  had  built,  although  she  was  Countess 
of  Provence  as  well  as  Queen  of  Naples.  It  was  from 
no  indisposition  to  travel  on  her  part,  for  she  was  never 
quiet  and  never  in  one  place  long,  not  even  when  she  was 
in  prison.  Flitting  about  from  Provence  to  Naples  took 
up  no  little  of  her  time,  and  when  she  was  not  occupied 
on  these  journeys  she  was  either  pursuing  her  enemies  or 
being,  in  turn,  pursued  by  them. 

In  the  language  of  the  history  book  she  "  flourished  " 
in  the  fourteenth  century.  The  expression  is  ineffective, 
for  she  "blazed"  rather  than  flourished.  She  was  the 
political  fidget  of  her  time.  A  beautiful  and  passionate 
woman,  she  traversed  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean  like 
a  whirlwind.  Her  adventures  would  occupy  the  longest 
film  of  the  most  sensational  picture  theatre.  Tragedy 
and  violent  domestic  scenes  became  her  most;  but 
wherever  she  went  there  circled  around  her  the  makings 
of  a  drama  of  some  kind.  All  the  materials  for  a  moving 
story  were  present.  The  scene  was  laid  in  feudal  times 
when  the  license  of  the  great  was  unrestrained.  The 
heroine  was  a  pretty  woman  who  fascinated  everyone 
who  came  in  her  path.  She  was,  moreover,  a  wayward 
lady  of  ability  and  wide  ambitions  who  was  quite  un- 
scrupulous, who  felt  herself  never  called  upon  to  keep 
her  word  and  who  was  determined  to  get  whatever  she 
wanted. 

1  "  The  Maritime  Alps,"  by  Miss  Dempster,  1885. 

85 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

She  had  a  somewhat  immoderate  taste  for  matrimony, 
since  she  ,was  a  widow  four  times  and  would  probably  have 
married  a  fifth  husband  had  not  a  friend  of  her  youth 
strangled  her  when  she  was  in  prison.  Her  selection  of 
husbands  was  catholic,  as  the  list  of  men  she  chose  will 
show.  They  were,  in  the  order  in  which  they  died, 
Andrew  of  Hungary,  Louis  of  Tarentum,  James  of 
Majorca,  and  Otto  of  Brunswick. 

She  was  charged  with  having  murdered  her  first  hus- 
band. The  charge  was  pressed  by  popular  clamour  and 
she  was  tried,  in  great  state,  in  her  own  town  of  Avignon, 
in  Provence,  in  the  year  1348.  The  Pope  himself  pre- 
sided. At  the  trial  she  is  said  to  have  made  a  deep 
impression  on  the  court.  She  startled  this  august 
assembly  of  solemn  men.  They  saw  in  her  a  woman 
full  of  the  tenderest  charm.  They  were  moved  by  her 
grace,  by  her  ease  of  manner,  by  the  sweetness  of  her 
voice,  by  her  pathos-stirring  eloquence,  and — strangest  of 
all — by  her  remarkable  knowledge  of  Latin.  She  was 
acquitted  and  then  publicly  blessed  by  the  Pope. 

Her  loyal  subjects  at  Naples  svere  not  satisfied  with 
this  tribunal.  They  wanted  their  queen  tried  over  again. 
They  were  rather  proud  of  her  and  they  liked  revelations 
of  palace  life.  Probably  too  they  knew  a  little  more 
than  had  "  come  out  "  at  Avignon.  Anyhow,  the  Pope 
was  compelled  again  to  proclaim  her  innocent,  and,  being 
a  man  of  the  world  and  anxious  to  put  himself  in  the 
right,  he  added  that  even  if  she  had  murdered  her  hus- 
band she  had  been  the  victim  of  witchcraft  and  sorcery 
and  so  was  not  responsible  for  her  actions. 

Queen  Jeanne  the   Unquiet  was  one  of  the  most 

obstinate  women  that  ever  lived.     The  only  way  to  in- 

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A  Prime  Minister  and  Two  Ladies  of  Grasse 

fluence  her  was  to  put  her  in  prison  and  her  experience 
of  prisons  was  large.  At  one  time  she  was  disposed  to 
hand  over  Provence,  or  some  part  of  it,  to  the  King  of 
France  or  other  neighbouring  potentate.  To  stop  this 
recklessness  she  was  arrested  by  the  barons  of  Les  Baux 
and  of  adjacent  Provencal  towns  and  locked  up.  Having 
promised  never  to  alienate  Provence  or  any  part  of  it, 
she  was  let  out  of  jail ;  but  she  had  not  long  been  free 
before  she  sold  Avignon,  the  chief  town  of  Provence,  to 
the  Pope  for  80,000  gold  florins.  As  an  excuse  she  said, 
with  a  smile,  that  she  was  rather  short  of  money. 

The  obstinacy  of  this  irrepressible  lady  led  to  her 
dramatic  ending.  She  took  a  very  decided  part  in  the 
controversy  known  as  the  Great  Schism  of  the  West. 
Her  determined  attitude  led  to  many  and  varied  troubles. 
Finally  she  was  besieged  in  Castel  Nuovo  and  there  had 
to  surrender  to  her  kinsman  and  one  time  friend,  Charles 
of  Durazzo.  He  attempted  to  make  her  renounce  the 
errors — or  reputed  errors — to  which  she  clung.  He 
failed,  and  "finding  that  nothing  could  bend  her  in- 
domitable spirit,  he  strangled  her  in  prison  on  May  12th, 
1382. "1 

Louise  de  Cabris. — On  a  certain  day,  in  the  year 
1769,  there  was  great  commotion  in  and  around  the 
mansion  of  the  Marquis  de  Cabris  in  the  Rue  du  Cours. 
The  young  marquis  was  bringing  home  his  bride.  The 
de  Cabris  represented  the  pinnacle  of  society  in  Grasse. 
They  were  the  great  people  of  the  town.  To  know 
them  was  in  itself  a  distinction.  The  bride  belonged  to 
a  family  even  more  eminent,  for  she  was  the  daughter 

1  "  Old  Provence,"  by  T.  A.  Cook,  1914,  vol.  2,  p.  298. 

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The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

of  the  Marquis  de  Mirabeau,  of  Mirabeau,  near  Aix  en 
Provence.  She  was  a  mere  girl,  being  only  seventeen 
years  of  age. 

The  nice,  worthy  people  of  Grasse  received  her  with 
effusive  kindness.  They  were  sorry  for  her,  because  they 
knew  the  husband.  He  was  young,  weak  and  vicious 
and  came  from  a  stock  deeply  tainted  with  insanity. 
They  took  the  gentle  little  marquise  under  their  motherly 
wing.  They  petted  her,  made  much  of  her  and  com- 
forted her  in  a  warm,  caressing  way.  They  knew  as  little 
what  kind  of  innocent  they  were  fussing  over  as  does  a 
hen  who  fosters  a  pretty  ball  of  yellow  down  that  turns 
into  a  duckling. 

When  Louise,  Marquise  de  Cabris,  reached  her  full 
stature,  those  who  had  mothered  her  viewed  with  amaze- 
ment the  product  of  their  care.  They  beheld  a  lady  who 
was  not  only  the  terror  of  Grasse,  but  a  subject  for 
scandal  far  beyond  anything  that  the  virtuous  town  had 
ever  dreamed  of.  Louise,  the  full-grown  woman,  was 
beautiful  to  look  at,  was  an  adept  in  the  arts  of  seduction, 
was  brilliant  in  speech  and  possessed  of  a  dazzling  but 
dangerous  wit.  She  was  a  woman  of  great  vitality  who 
loved  excitement  and  cared  little  of  what  kind  it  was. 
She  was  depraved  in  a  genial  kind  of  way,  picturesquely 
wicked,  had  a  lover,  of  course — a  feeble  youth  named 
Brianfon — had  no  heart  and  no  principles.  She  could 
claim,  as  one  writer  says,  "the  Mirabeau  madness  and 
badness  and  all  the  Mirabeau  brains."^ 

When  the  good  old  ladies  of  Grasse  gossiped  together 
they  no  longer  discussed  what  they  could  do  to  help  the 

1  "  Life  of  Mirabeau,"  by  S.  G.  Tallentyre.     "  Les  Mirabeau,"  by  L.  de 
Lomenie. 

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A  Prime  Minister  and  Two  Ladies  of  Grasse 

poor  marquise.  Their  sole  anxiety  was  to  know  "  what 
on  earth  she  would  do  next."  She  did  a  great  deal. 
Incidentally  she  challenged  another  lady  to  fight  a  duel 
with  pistols.  Think  of  it !  The  timid,  clinging  bride  of 
a  few  years  taking  to  fighting  with  firearms  !  What  next 
indeed ! 

Louise  was  much  attached  to  her  famous  brother,  the 
great  Mirabeau,  the  orator,  statesman  and  roue.  When- 
ever this  illustrious  man  was  in  a  mess — and  he  was  very 
often  in  a  mess — he  always  came  for  help  and  sympathy 
to  his  nimble-minded  and  wicked  sister.  Louise  was  the 
only  member  of  the  Mirabeau  family  who  attended  his 
wedding  with  Mademoiselle  Marignane,  and  she  had 
always  regarded  his  shortcomings  with  indulgence  and 
even  with  admiration. 

One  visit  that  Mirabeau  paid  to  his  sister  at  Grasse 
became  memorable.  The  brother  was  in  some  trouble 
again.  The  affair  had  to  do  with  his  wife's  lover  and  he 
came  to  his  sister  as  to  an  expert  in  the  treatment  of 
lovers. 

Now  shortly  before  his  arrival  the  sober  city  of 
Grasse  had  passed  through  a  species  of  convulsion. 
Placards  had  been  mysteriously  posted  all  over  the  town 
in  which  the  characters  of  the  ladies  of  Grasse  were  at- 
tacked in  the  coarsest  and  plainest  language.  It  was 
curious  that  one  lady's  name  was  not  touched  upon.  Of 
all  names  the  name  of  the  Marquise  de  Cabris  alone  was 
wanting.  The  inference  naturally  followed  that  the  libels 
had  been  propagated  by  the  de  Cabris.  There  was  a 
violent  and  confused  uproar  which  was  hushed  at 
last  by  the  payment  to  the  injured  parties  of  a  large 
sum   by   the   fooHsh   Marquis   de    Cabris.      Louise,    on 

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The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

the  other  hand,  .who  had  no  doubt  written  the  abusive 
lampoons  herself,  placidly  disclaimed  all  knowledge  of  the 
matter.  She  said,  with  hauteur,  that  they  were  beneath 
her  notice  and,  at  the  same  time,  wished  it  to  be  known 
that  she  was  very  cross  with  those  who  had  the  audacity 
to  suspect  her. 

Among  the  society  folk  who  had  "  said  things  "  about 
Madame  de  Cabris  in  connection  with  the  libels  was  her 
inext-door  neighbour,  a  certain  Baron  de  Villeneuve- 
Monans. 

The  gardens  of  the  baron  and  the  lady  touched. 
These  gardens  ended  in  two  terraces  one  above  the  other, 
like  two  steps.  On  the  upper  terrace  the  marquise  had 
built  a  summer  house  which  she  called  Le  Pavilion  des 
Indes.  It  was  her  Petit  Trianon,  her  quiet  corner,  and 
was  surmounted  by  a  gilded  goat's  head,  the  goat's  head 
being  the  "  canting  "  arms  of  the  Cabris  (cahri). 

On  the  occasion  of  her  brother's  visit  Louise  gave  a 
quiet  dinner  in  her  pavilion.  The  party  consisted  of  her 
brother  and  herself,  her  lover  Briangon  and  an  unnamed 
lady  who  was  invited,  no  doubt,  to  entertain  Mirabeau. 
Before  the  meal  was  over  the  baron  appeared  on  the 
upper  terrace  of  his  garden,  in  order  to  take  the  air 
before  the  sun  went  down.  Louise  pointed  him  out  to 
her  brother,  told  him  what  the  baron  had  done  and 
what  she  would  do  with  that  nobleman  if  she  had  the 
strength.  Mirabeau  at  once  jumped  up  from  the  table, 
stepped  over  into  the  baron's  garden  and  fell  upon  the 
unsuspecting  man  with  explosive  violence. 

Now  to  introduce  a  comic  element  into  a  conflict 
of  this  kind  it  is  essential  that  at  least  one  of  the  com- 
batants should  be  elderly  and  corpulent  and  that,  by 

90 


GRASSE  :    RUE   SANS   PEUR. 


A  Prime  Minister  and  Two  Ladies  of  Grasse 

some  means  or  another,  an  umbrella  should  be  brought 
into  the  affair.  All  these  factors  were  present.  The 
baron  jvas  over  fifty ;  he  was  very  fat  and,  as  the 
evening  was  hot,  he  carried  an  umbrella.  Excessive 
perspiration,  also,  is  considered  to  be  conducive  to 
humour. 

Mirabeau,  the  statesman,  flew  at  the  fat  man, 
bashed  in  his  hat  and,  seizing  the  umbrella,  proceeded 
to  beat  him  on  the  head  with  it.  Further  he  made 
the  baron's  nose  bleed  and  tore  his  clothes,  especially 
about  the  neck. 

He  also  kicked  him.  The  fat  baron,  who  was 
shaped  like  a  melon,  clung  to  the  agile  politician, 
with  the  result  that  they  both  rolled  off  the  terrace 
on  to  the  ledge  below,  where  sober  gardeners,  with 
bent  backs,  were  busy  with  the  soil.  These  honest 
men  were  surprised  to  see  two  members  of  the  aris- 
tocracy drop  from  a  wall  and  roll  along  the  ground, 
with  an  umbrella  serving  as  a  kind  of  axle,  snarling 
like  cats  and  using  language  that  would  have  brought 
a  blush  to  the  cheek  of  a  pirate. 

Louise,  on  the  terrace  above,  was  beside  herself  with 
joy.  She  screamed,  she  clapped  her  hands,  she  stamped, 
she  jumped  with  pure  delight.  She  was  in  an  ecstasy; 
and  when  a  fresh  rent  appeared  in  the  baron's  coat  or 
when  fresh  mud  appeared  on  his  face  as  he  rolled  over 
and  over,  or  when  Mirabeau 's  fist  sounded  upon  him 
like  a  drum  she  was  bent  double  with  laughter. 

Mirabeau  was  of  course  arrested  for  his  part  in  this 
entertainment  and  was  sentenced  to  two  years'  im- 
prisonment. The  prison  to  which  he  was  sent  was  the 
famous    Chateau   d'If.     In  his   confinement,   however, 

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The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

he  was  consoled  by  thinking  that  he  had  given  his 
sister  the  merriest  day  in  her  life. 

The  Mirabeau  family  was  a  peculiar  one.  The 
Marquis  de  Mirabeau  hated  his  daughter  and  she,  as 
cordially,  hated  him.  The  basis  of  the  enmity  was  the 
fact  that  Louise  sided  with  her  mother  in  the  constant 
quarrels  upon  which  her  parents  were  engaged.  The 
marquis,  who  called  his  daughter  Rongelime  after  the 
serpent  in  the  fable,  contrived  to  have  her  sent  to  the 
Ursuline  convent  at  Sisteron,  as  a  punishment  for  her 
many  and  scandalous  misdeeds.  The  sisters  were,  no 
doubt,  pleased  to  receive  so  noble  a  lady;  but  their 
pleasure  was  short-lived,  for  at  the  dinner  table  the 
marquise  used  such  unusual  language  and  told  such 
improper  stories  that  the  convent  was  soon  divided  into 
two  parties — those  who  were  too  horrified  to  associate 
with  her  and  those  who  could  not  withstand  the 
lure  of  the  beautiful  woman  who  said  such  thrillingly 
dreadful  things. 

Exile  to  Sisteron  was  rather  a  severe  measure  for 
the  flighty  Louise.  Although  it  is  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  towns  in  this  part  of  France  it  lies  far  away 
among  the  hills,  no  less  than  118  miles  from  Nice  by 
the  Grenoble  road.  This  road,  which  is  as  full  of 
wonders  and  enchantment  as  any  road  in  an  adventurous 
romance,  did  not  exist  in  the  days  of  Madame  de 
Cabris. 

Sisteron  stands  in  a  narrow  gorge  through  which 
rushes  the  Durance  river.  The  pass  is  bounded  on 
either  side  by  a  towering  precipice.  The  town,  which 
has  only  room  for  one  long  dim  street,  clings  to  a 
ledge  some  few  yards  above  the  torrent  and  at  the  foot 

92 


A  Prime  Minister  and  Two  Ladies  of  Grasse 

of  the  loftier  cliff.  On  the  summit  of  this  height  stood 
the  castle,  the  place  of  which  is  now  occupied  by  a 
modern  military  work.  In  the  town,  besides  the 
exquisite  church  of  Notre  Dame  of  the  eleventh  and 
twelfth  centuries,  are  four  isolated  and  very  lonely  round 
towers.  They  were  built  about  the  year  1364.  They 
are  put  to  no  purpose,  but  simply  stand  in  a  row  on 
vacant  ground,  looking  disconsolate,  as  if  they  had 
been  accidentally  left  behind  when  the  other  ancient 
properties  of  the  city  were  removed. 

Across  the  river,  at  the  foot  of  the  gentler  cliff,  is 
a  little  wizen,  sun-bleached  place  called  the  Old  Town. 
It  is  made  up  of  gaunt  houses  which  show  many  traces 
of  grandeur  and  of  haughty  bearing;  but  which  are 
now  tenanted  by  a  colony  of  poor  and  picturesquely 
untidy  folk.  At  the  far  end  of  this  row  of  ghostly 
buildings  is  Louise's  convent,  where  she  chafed  and 
fumed,  said  terrible  things  and  told  un-nun-like 
stories. 

It  was  a  bustling  place  in  its  day  but  it  is  now 
deserted  and  falling  into  ruin.  Those  who  would  reahse 
the  pathos  and  the  beauty  of  the  last  days  of  an  old 
convent  should  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Sisteron.  The 
convent  buildings  are  tenanted  by  a  few  humble  families 
who  seem  to  have  settled  here  in  the  half-hearted  mood 
of  diffident  intruders.  There  cannot  be  many  habitable 
rooms  left  in  the  rambling  building,  although  there  is 
much  space  for  hoarding  rubbish.  At  one  end  is  the 
little  chapel,  still  almost  intact,  but  in  a  state  of  lament- 
able neglect.  It  is  low,  has  a  curious  rounded  apse  and 
a  bell  gable  with  two  bells  in  it.  One  wonders  who  was 
the  last  to  ring  these  bells,  for  their  ropes  are  gone  and 

93 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

they  must  have  been  silent  for  many  years.  The  ringer 
may  have  been  some  bent,  grey-haired  nun  who  loved 
the  bells  and,  hearing  them  sound  for  the  last  time  with 
infinite  sorrow,  would  have  dropped  the  rope  with  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

The  chapel  is  built  of  a  jvarm,  yellow  stone  and  has 
a  roof  of  rounded  tiles  of  such  exquisite  tints  of  ashen- 
grey,  of  dull  red  and  of  chestnut  brown  that  it  may  be 
covered  with  a  rippled  thatch  of  autumn  leaves.  At 
the  other  end  of  the  convent  is  a  fine  campanile  of  sturdy 
mason's  work.  It  is  still  proud  and  commanding, 
although  its  base  is  occupied  by  a  stable  and  is  stuffed 
with  that  dusty  rubbish,  that  mouldy  hay  and  those 
fragments  of  farm  implements  that  the  poor  seem  never 
to  have  the  heart  to  destroy. 

Behind  the  chapel  is  a  tiny  graveyard  which  is 
symbolic  of  the  place ;  for  it  is  so  overgrown  that  its  few 
sad  monuments  are  almost  hidden  by  weeds  and  scrubby 
bushes.  The  view  from  the  convent  is  one  of  enchant- 
ing beauty.  It  looks  down  the  valley  of  the  Buech 
which  joins  the  main  river  just  above  the  town.  It 
might  be  a  glade  in  Paradise. 

The  place  is  very  silent.  The  only  sounds  to  be  heard 
are  the  same  as  would  have  fallen  upon  the  ears  of  the 
restless  marquise — the  childlike  chuckle  of  the  river, 
the  song  of  a  shepherd  on  the  hill,  the  clang  of  a  black- 
smith's hammer  far  away  and  the  tolling  of  the  old 
church  bell  across  the  stream. 

Before  long  the  illustrious  Mirabeau  was  in  another 
mess  and  needed  once  more  the  help  of  his  experienced 
sister.  This  time  he  was  running  away  with  Madame 
de  Monnier,  the  wife  of  a  friend.     Louise  was  still  in 

94 


A  Prime  Minister  and  Two  Ladies  of  Grasse 

the  convent;  but  she  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
of  assisting  her  brother  in  this  laudable  and  exciting 
enterprise.  So  she  bolted  from  the  convent,  assumed  a 
man's  attire,  armed  herself  and  started  on  horseback 
with  her  lover  Briangon  to  join  the  runaway  couple. 
The  movements  of  the  party  are  a  little  difficult  to 
follow.  They  went  to  Geneva,  to  Thonon  and  to  Lyons. 
They  had  difficulties  at  the  frontier  and  other  mishaps. 
In  some  way  Louise  and  Briangon  failed  Mirabeau  at  a 
critical  moment.  The  lady  seems  to  have  lost  her  nerve 
and  to  have  unwittingly  given  a  clue  as  to  her  brother's 
whereabouts,  so  that  he  narrowly  escaped  capture. 

Briangon  and  Mirabeau  quarrelled,  flew  at  one 
another's  throats,  and  were  parted,  with  difficulty,  by 
the  panting  marquise.  This  episode  led  to  a  coolness 
between  brother  and  sister,  a  coolness  which  in  time 
ended  in  bitter  enmity. 

Then  came  the  French  Revolution  which  brought 
complete  ruin  to  the  de  Cabris  family  and  destruction  to 
their  house.  Louise  and  her  husband  fled  from  the 
country  during  the  Terror.  When  they  returned  to 
France  they  found  their  home  at  Grasse  gone  and  their 
affairs  in  a  state  of  dissolution.  To  add  to  the  troubles 
of  the  irrepressible  lady  her  husband  had  lapsed  into  a 
state  of  hopeless  insanity. 

The  once  gay  marquise,  having  lost  estate,  position 
and  friends,  retired  to  a  small  appartement  in  Paris 
with  her  sick  husband.  She  had  one  daughter  who  was 
married  and  had  children. 

The  moralist  may  ask  what  was  the  end  of  this  wild, 
rollicking  and  reckless  woman.  She  did  not  end  her 
days — as  some  may  surmise — in  a  poor-house,  a  lunatic 

95 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

asylum  or  a  jail.  On  the  contrary  she  devoted  the  last 
years  of  her  life  to  the  care  of  her  poor  imbecile  husband 
whom  she  nursed  with  a  tenderness  that  the  most  loving 
wife  could  not  exceed.  More  than  that  she  applied  her 
fine  talents  to  the  teaching  of  her  grandchildren ;  so  that 
the  last  we  see  of  the  flighty  marquise  is  a  sweet-faced 
old  lady,  with  white  hair,  who  guides  the  finger  of  a 
child,  standing  at  her  knee,  across  the  pages  of  a  book 
of  prayer. 


96 


CAGNES. 


XII 

CAGNES  AND    ST.    PAUL   DU    VAR 

ALONG  the  road  from  Nice  to  Vence  are  two 
interesting  little  towns,  Cagnes  and  St.  Paul 
^  du  Var.  Cagnes — or  rather  old  Cagnes — is 
perched  on  the  top  of  a  beehive-shaped  hill  on  the 
confines  of  a  plain.  It  looks  very  picturesque  from  the 
distance  and,  unlike  many  other  places,  it  is  equally 
attractive  near  at  hand. 

It  is  an  odd  town  in  the  sense  that  it  is  made  up  of 

odd    fragments.      There    are    no    two    things    alike    in 

Cagnes,  nothing  that  matches.     It  is  indeed  a  pile  of 

very   miscellaneous    houses   inclined   to    set   themselves 

askew  like  the  parts  of  a  cubist  picture.    Mixed  up  with 

dwellings,  notable  by  their  contrariness  and  their  obvious 

revolt  against  all  that  is  conventional  in  the  shape  and 

arrangements  of  a  house,  are  portions  of  old  ramparts, 

a  ruined  sentry  tower  and  a  gate  that  has  got  astray 

from   its   connections.     There   is   a   church  too   that   is 

apparently  out  of  drawing,  that  has  a  lane  burrowing 

under  its  tower  and  that  has  become  wedged  in  among 

bits  of  a  town  on  a  precarious  slope.     It  looks  like  a 

very  decrepit  sick  person  who  has  slipped  down  in  bed. 

Curious  chimneys  (some  of  which  are  wonderful  to  see) 

form  conspicuous  features  of  the  dwellings  of  Cagnes. 

There   are  houses  that  seem  to   have   rather  overdone 
H  97 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

their  efforts  to  be  picturesque;  as  well  as  others  that 
have  carried  their  determination  to  be  simple  to  excess. 
Of  the  super-simple  house  the  old  Maison  commune 
affords  a  good  example. 

Cagnes  is  a  quiet  town  with  a  total  absence  of  traffic 
in  its  streets.  Indeed  as  if  to  show  that  the  highway 
is  not  intended  for  traffic  an  old  lady  has  seated  herself 
in  the  centre  of  the  main  road  to  knit,  finding,  no  doubt, 
the  light  better  in  that  position  than  in  a  house.  The 
sudden  way  in  which  lanes  drop  headlong  down  the  hill, 
to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  is  quite  disturbing.  It  is 
a  place  of  pitfalls  and  hazardous  stairs  that  must  be  very 
trying  to  the  village  drunkard. 

The  centre  of  Cagnes — its  Place  de  la  Concorde — is 
a  peasant-like  little  place,  humble  and  very  still,  called 
the  Place  Grimaldi.  It  is  made  green  by  a  line  of  acacia 
trees  and  is  bounded  on  one  side  by  a  row  of  modest 
houses,  ranged,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  like  a  company  in 
grey.  The  buildings  at  the  principal  end  are  supported 
upon  arches  with  sturdy  old  pillars  which  give  the  spot 
an  air  of  mystery.  On  the  other  side  of  the  square  a 
double  flight  of  stairs  mounts  pompously  to  the  castle. 
The  square  is  approached  by  a  lane  which,  to  add  to  the 
fantastic  character  of  the  Place,  pops  out  unexpectedly 
through  the  base  of  the  church  tower  ^ 

There  was  a  time,  long  ago,  when  life  in  Cagnes  was 
very  gay  and  when,  indeed,  Cagnes'  society  was  so  lively 
and  so  exuberant  as  to  bring  down  upon  the  inhabitants 
a  crushing  reproof  from  the  bishop  of  Vence.  The 
reprimand  was  conveyed  to  the  young  men  and  women 
of  Cagnes  in  a  message  of  great  harshness  in  which  were 
unfeeling  references  to  the  pains  of  hell.    This  was  in 

98 


CAGNES  :    THE   TOWN    GATE. 


Cagnes  and  St.  Paul  du  Var 

1678.  It  appeared  that  the  people  of  Cagnes  had  a 
passion  for  dancing,  a  passion  almost  as  uncontrolled  as 
the  craze  of  the  present  day.  They  danced  in  the  streets, 
the  bishop  stated.  As  there  are  no  level  streets  in 
Cagnes  it  is  probable  that  the  Place  Grimaldi  was  the 
scene  of  this  display  of  depravity.  The  young  people 
seem  to  have  favoured  a  kind  of  mediaeval  tango,  for 
the  bishop  said  some  very  unpleasant  things  to  the 
ladies  of  Cagnes  about  their  "indelicate  postures  and 
embraces."  As  to  the  male  dancers  they  are  described 
as  ^'  forcenes^^ ;  so  they  may  be  assumed  to  have 
introduced  into  these  street  dances  some  of  the  violence 
and  surprises  of  the  madhouse. 

The  dancing  took  place,  of  course,  principally  on  a 
Sunday  and  the  dancers  excused  themselves  to  the  bishop 
by  saying  that  the  church  was  so  exceedingly  dirty  that 
they  did  not  care  to  enter  it  and,  therefore,  there  was 
nothing  for  them  to  do  on  the  Sabbath  but  either  to  sit 
in  the  shade  and  yawn  or  to  dance  in  the  streets. 

The  bishop,  who  was  clearly  very  "down  upon" 
Cagnes,  was  severe  too  on  the  subject  of  the  ladies'  dress, 
or  rather  lack  of  dress.  He  especially  found  fault  with 
the  low-necked  costume  and  affirmed  that  women  had 
been  seen  in  church  "  with  bare  throats  and  chests  and 
without  even  a  kerchief  or  scarf  to  veil  them."  It  would 
be  interesting  to  know  what  the  bishop  of  Vence  would 
say  about  the  low-necked  dress  of  to-day,  which  is  carried 
down  to  the  diaphragm  in  front  and  to  the  base  of  the 
spinal  column  behind. 

The  castle  of  Cagnes  stands  at  the  top  of  the  town 
on  a  wide  platform  from  which  can  be  obtained  a  view 
of  the  sea,  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  the  snow-covered 

99 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

mountains  on  the  other.  This  is  a  castle  of  the  great 
Grimaldi  family.  It  dates,  Mr.  MacGibbon  ^  says,  from 
the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries  and  is  claimed  to  be 
the  finest  specimen  of  a  mediaeval  stronghold  in  this  part 
of  France.  It  is  simply  a  vast,  square  keep,  as  solid  as  a 
cliff  and  as  grim  as  a  prison.  It  is  heavily  machicolated 
below  the  parapet.  It  is  frankly  ugly,  brutal  and 
repellent,  an  embodiment  of  f rightfulness,  a  frown  in 
stone. 

It  is  said  that  the  great  hall  of  the  chateau  possesses 
a  ceiling  painted  by  Carlone  in  the  seventeenth  century. 
The  fresco  represents  the  Fall  of  Phaeton.  The  present 
state  of  this  work  of  art  is  doubtful,  for  in  1815  the  castle 
was  occupied  by  Piedmontese  soldiers  who,  lolling  on  sofas 
and  divans,  amused  themselves  by  firing  at  the  head  of 
Phaeton  and  apparently  with  some  success. 

The  castle  has,  however,  been  disfigured  in  such  a 
way  as  to  render  it  pitiable  and  ridiculous.  At  some 
period  huge  modern  windows  have  been  cut  in  its  fear- 
some walls.  These  windows,  brazen  and  aggressive,  have 
all  the  assurance  of  the  windows  of  a  pushing  boarding 
house  and  to  sustain  that  character  are  furnished  with 
sun-shutters  and  lace  curtains.  The  worst  phase  of  this 
outrage  is  the  cutting  away  of  some  of  the  glorious 
machicolations  in  order  to  make  room  for  the  blatant 
plate  glass.  This  superb  old  castle,  in  its  present  plight, 
can  only  be  compared  to  the  figure  of  a  sun-tanned  and 
scarred  veteran  with  a  helmet  on  his  grey  head  and  a 
halberd  in  his  hand  and  on  his  breast,  in  the  place  of 
the  steel  cuirass,  a  parlourmaid's  pinafore  trimmed  with 
lace. 

1  "  Architecture  of  Provence,"  1888. 
100 


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CAGNES  :    THE   CASTLE. 


Cagnes  and  St.  Paul  du  Var 

St.  Paul  du  Var,  on  the  way  between  Cagnes  and 
Venee,  affords  a  vivid  realisation  of  the  fortified  town 
of  the  middle  ages.  It  is  but  little  altered  and  that  only 
on  the  surface.  Its  fortifications,  laid  down  in  1547,  are 
still  quite  complete.  Its  circle  of  ramparts  is  unbroken. 
There  are  still  the  old  gates,  the  towers,  the  bastions  and 
the  barbicans.  The  path  along  the  parapet  that  the  sentry 
patrolled  is  undisturbed.  One  almost  expects  to  hear  his 
challenge  for  the  password.  The  town  is  as  ready  to 
withstand  the  attack  of  an  army  of  bowmen  or  of 
halberdiers  as  it  ever  was.  It  might  even  defy  cannon 
if  they  were  as  small  and  as  weak  as  the  old  piece  of 
ordnance  that  still  occupies  the  battery  by  the  main  gate. 

The  streets  are  disposed  as  they  were  in  the  days  of 
the  leathern  jerkin  and  the  farthingale.  There  are  more 
houses  of  obvious  antiquity  in  the  place  than  will  be 
seen  in  any  town  of  its  size  in  Provence.  The  hand  of 
improvement  has  of  course  passed  clumsily  over  them. 
Whitewash  can  wipe  out  the  past  and  it  has  done  much 
in  this  way  in  St.  Paul.  If  the  stone  wall  of  a  house 
has  become  too  rugged  and  worn  it  can  be  covered  up 
with  plaster  and  paint.  If  the  balcony  crumbles  away 
its  balustrade  can  be  used  in  the  fowl-house  and  can  be 
replaced  by  something  in  cheap  iron  from  a  shop  in  Nice. 
When  the  stone  chimney  falls  down  a  tin  stovepipe  can 
fill  the  void.  If  the  Gothic  window  be  too  small  it  is 
easy  to  make  a  fine  square  opening  that  will  take  lace 
curtains  and  be  worthy  of  Bermondsey,  and  when  the 
oak  door,  whose  black  nails  have  been  fumbled  over  by 
ten  generations  of  boys  and  girls,  has  become  shabby  a 
door  of  deal,  painted  green  and  varnished  and  provided 
with  a  brass  knocker  will  make  the  whole  town  envious. 

lOI 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Still,  in  spite  of  all  these  sorry  evidences  of  advance 
with  the  times,  the  town  of  St.  Paul  remains  a  rare 
relic  worthy  (if  it  were  possible)  to  be  placed  bodily  in 
a  museum,  for  it  is  a  museum  specimen. 

The  visitor  enters  the  town  through  the  vaulted 
passage  of  the  main  gate  and  then  makes  his  way  by 
the  inner  guard  and  under  a  tower,  with  a  channel  for 
the  portcullis,  into  the  town.  It  is  a  rather  terrifying 
entry  that  belongs  to  the  old  days  of  romance.  A  gate- 
way that  the  reader  of  heroic  tales  has  passed  through, 
in  imagination,  many  a  time.  It  should  be  held  with 
flashing  swords  by  such  men  as  the  Three  Musketeers, 
by  Athos,  Porthos  and  Aramis,  but  at  the  moment  it 
is  obstructed  only  by  an  aged  woman  with  a  perverse 
and  overburdened  donkey. 

The  town  is  quiet  and  clean,  full  of  picturesque  lanes, 
of  quaint  corners  and  of  odd  passages.  As  it  was  at 
one  time  a  favourite  resort  of  the  nobles  of  the  country 
and  at  all  times  a  place  of  much  dignity  it  contains  still 
many  houses  with  handsome  stone  staircases  and  elaborate 
chimney-pieces ;  while  over  door  after  door  will  be  found 
carved  the  armorial  bearings  of  old  world  tenants.  The 
dates  above  many  entries  go  back  to  the  sixteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries.  Some  of  the  old  wooden  doors 
still  standing  are  most  beautiful,  while  examples  of  ancient 
windows  and  of  ancient  archways  are  very  numerous. 

In  St.  Paul  du  Var  will  be  seen,  in  almost  every 
street,  examples  of  the  little  shop  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
Under  a  wide  arch  or  in  a  square  opening  will  be  found 
a  door  approached  by  a  step  and  by  the  door  a  window. 
The  window  only  reaches  to  the  level  of  the  middle  of 
the  door.    It  there  ends  in  a  stone  counter  upon  jvhich 

102 


ST.  PAUL  DU  VAR. 


ST.  PAUL  DU  VAR:  THE  ENTRY 


ST.    PAUL   DU   VAR:    THE   MAIN    GATE. 


Cagnes  and  St.  Paul  du  Var 

the  goods  for  sale  were  displayed.  The  window  (which 
is,  of  course,  not  glazed)  is  closed  by  a  shutter.  Both 
shutter  and  door  are  usually  studded  with  heavy  nails. 
These  curious  little  establishments  are  no  longer  used 
as  shops,  but  through  them  the  dwelling  is  still  entered. 

On  the  summit  of  the  town  is  the  church  and,  close 
to  it,  two  great,  square  towers  of  the  thirteenth  or  four- 
teenth centuries.  The  taller  of  these  is  the  belfry  of  the 
church,  while  the  more  sturdy  is  the  tower  of  the  town. 
They  are  both  severely  plain  and  fine  specimens  of  the 
period  to  which  they  belong. 

The  church  dates  from  the  same  era  as  the  towers 
and  is — as  regards  its  interior — one  of  the  most  beautiful 
churches  in  Provence  and  certainly  one  of  the  most 
interesting.  Among  its  notable  features  are  certain  altar 
screens  of  exquisitely  carved  wood  which  date  from  be- 
tween the  fifteenth  and  the  seventeenth  centuries.  The 
chapel  of  St.  Clement  the  Martyr,  completed  in  1680,  is 
a  magnificent  work  of  art,  full  of  details  of  great  merit. 
It  is  classed  as  a  national  monument.  On  the  north 
side  of  the  church  is  a  bust  of  Saint  Claire,  carved  in 
wood,  a  work  of  the  sixteenth  century.  It  represents  the 
head  of  a  young  woman  with  a  singularly  beautiful  and 
pathetic  face.  It  is  a  haunting  face,  for  whenever  the 
church  of  St.  Paul  is  recalled  to  mind  this  face  at  once 
comes  back  among  the  shadows  of  its  aisles. 

There  is  in  the  sacristy  a  collection  of  treasures  which 
has  made  the  church  famous  throughout  France.  It  in- 
cludes marvellous  crucifixes  in  silver,  silver  statuettes  of  the 
thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries,  a  tabernacle  portatif 
and  numerous  old  reliquaries,  one  of  which — very  curious 
in  shape — contains  the  shoulder-bone  of  St.  George. 

103 


XIII 

CAP   FERRAT   AND    ST.    HOSPICE 

CAP  FERRAT  is  the  name  of  a  narrow  tongue 
of  land  which  is  suddenly  thrust  out  into  the  sea 
between  Villefranche  and  Beaulieu.  It  is  one 
of  the  great  landmarks  along  the  coast,  is  nearly  a  mile 
in  length  and  rises  at  one  point  to  the  height  of  446  feet. 
It  is  a  peninsula  of  rock  covered  with  trees  and  forms 
a  pleasant  strip  of  green  athwart  the  blue  expanse  of 
water.  At  its  further  end  it  breaks  up  into  two  capes 
which  spread  apart  like  the  limbs  of  a  Y.  One  is  Cap 
de  St.  Hospice,  the  other  Cap  Ferrat. 

Cap  de  St.  Hospice  is  a  very  humble  cape,  small 
and  low.  All  the  present  dignity  of  the  peninsula 
belongs  to  Cap  Ferrat,  which  has  a  lighthouse  on  its 
point  and  a  great  hotel,  as  well  as  a  semaphore  on  a  hill 
and  a  number  of  villas  of  high  quality.  Cap  de  St. 
Hospice  has  none  of  these  things ;  but  it  possesses  a  little 
fishing  village,  a  lonely  church,  an  ancient  tower  and  a 
wealth  of  glorious  memories.  Cap  Ferrat  is  modern. 
It  has  no  associations ;  for  until  the  road-maker  and  the 
villa  builder  came  it  was  merely  a  strip  of  rough  forest. 
The  whole  interest  of  this  would-be  island  centres  around 
the  promontory  of  St.  Hospice. 

In  the  early  days  the  land,  far  and  wide,  that  bordered 
on  the  cape  was  buried  in  the  gloom  of  paganism.     It 

104 


ST.   PAUL   DU  VAR:    A    SIDE    STREET. 


ST,    PAUL   DU  VAR:    A    SHOP   OF   THE   MEDIEVAL 

TYPE. 


Gap  Ferrat  and  St,  Hospice 

was  as  dark  as  a  moonless  night  in  winter  and  as  chill. 
Then,  in  a  certain  year,  a  spark  of  light  appeared  on 
Cap  de  St.  Hospice.  It  was  very  small,  a  mere  isolated 
speck  in  the  overwhelming  shadow.  It  glowed  from  a 
humble  monastery  of  a  few  stone  huts  which  formed 
the  first  Christian  settlement  in  this  part  of  the  Medi- 
terranean. With  the  passage  of  years  the  spark  grew 
until  the  darkness  about  the  cape  changed  to  day  and  the 
whole  country  beyond  was  flooded  with  a  light  that  men 
came  to  know  as  the  Light  of  the  World. 

The  missionary  who  estabhshed  himself  upon  this 
remote  point  of  land  was  St.  Hospice  or  St.  Auspicius. 
He,  with  only  a  few  followers,  planted  on  the  cape,  in 
the  year  560,  an  outpost  of  the  Christian  religion.  So 
primitive  and  crude  was  the  settlement  that  it  was  rather 
an  entrenchment  than  a  monastery.  Of  the  rough  stone 
hovels  that  composed  it  no  trace,  of  course,  exists. 

St.  Hospice  is  described  as  a  man,  eloquent  of  speech, 
whose  presence  was  commanding  but  whose  heart  was 
that  of  a  child.  He  had  the  gift  of  prophecy  and  the 
power  of  working  miracles.  He  foretold  the  coming  of 
the  Lombards  and  saw,  as  in  a  vision,  the  desolation  that 
they  would  leave  in  their  track.  He  warned  his  converts 
to  seek  safety  in  strong  places  and  to  take  their  goods 
.with  them.  As  for  himself,  when  the  news  reached  Cap 
Ferrat  in  572  that  the  Lombards  had  crossed  the  Col 
di  Tenda,  he  shut  himself  up  in  an  old  deserted  tower 
on  the  crest  of  the  cape  and — like  St.  Paul — hoped  for 
the  day. 

When  the  barbarians  arrived  they  were  convinced  that 
the  tower,  which  was  so  closely  shut,  must  be  the  hiding 
place  of  treasure.     One  of  the  robbers  at  once  climbed 

105 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

to  the  top  of  the  stronghold  and  peeped  over.  He  found 
it  roofless  and,  looking  down  into  the  depth,  saw  not 
coffers  filled  with  silver  and  gold  but  a  solitary  man, 
emaciated  and  in  rags,  sitting  on  the  bare  stones.  They 
assumed  him  to  be  a  miser  who  had  vast  .wealth  buried 
beneath  the  flags  on  which  he  crouched.  With  violent 
hammer  blows  they  broke  down  the  door  and  effected 
an  entry. 

The  captain  of  the  gang  pushed  through  the  opening 
and,  confronting  the  silent  figure  on  the  ground,  de- 
manded who  he  was  and  where  his  hoard  was  concealed. 
To  this  the  supposed  man  of  wealth  repHed,  "I  am  a 
murderer.  There  is  no  crime  that  I  am  not  guilty  of, 
and  with  each  misdeed  I  have  crucified  anew  the  Son  of 
God."  This  was  a  dark  saying  very  hard  to  understand. 
The  Lombard,  although  himself  a  practised  murderer, 
felt  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  criminal  of  unusual 
virulence,  of  a  malefactor  whose  wickedness  was  even 
riper  than  his  own.  His  moral  sense  was  shocked  by 
this  revolting  creature  crouching  on  the  earth,  and 
moved  by  an  impulse  of  justice  he  proceeded  to  kill  him. 
This  was  in  accord  with  the  routine  procedure  adopted 
by  Lombards  in  all  cases  of  doubt.  "He  raised  his 
weapon  to  strike  a  deadly  blow  on  the  criminal's  head, 
but,  to  the  horror  of  all  present,  his  arm  remained  dry 
and  stiff  in  the  air  and  the  weapon  fell  heavily  to  the 
ground."^ 

This  terrible  occurrence  filled  those  who  had  crowded 
into  the  tower  with  shivering  dread.  They  feared  that 
they  too  might  be  punished  in  this  mysterious  and  abrupt 
manner.     They  felt  their  limbs  all  over  to  see  if  they 

1  "  Mentone,"  by  Dr.  George  Miiller,  1910. 
io6 


Gap  Ferrat  and  St.  Hospice 

were  still  sound,  looked  at  the  placid  figure  on  the  floor 
with  awe  and  finally  fell  down  upon  their  knees  and 
implored  mercy  and  forgiveness.  St.  Hospice  now  arose, 
touched  the  withered  arm,  made  over  it  the  sign  of  the 
cross  and  uttered  some  fervent  words.  At  once  the  limb 
became  whole  again. 

So  vivid  was  the  impression  made  upon  these  rude 
men  that  two  officers  and  many  of  the  company  expressed 
a  desire  to  be  baptised  then  and  there.  They  never 
dreamt  that  the  expedition  would  end  in  this  way.  They 
had  come  to  plunder  and  burn,  not  to  be  baptised.  Those 
outside  the  tower  who  had  not  seen  the  demonstration 
accomplished  by  the  supposed  criminal  promptly  re- 
treated. They  were  unfortunately  met  on  the  way  by  a 
body  of  Ligurians  who  fell  upon  them  and  killed  them. 
The  attack  on  Cap  Ferrat  thus  proved  a  failure  and  the 
Lombards  viewed  the  peninsula  with  such  mistrust  that 
they  left  it  in  peace. 

St.  Hospice  continued  to  live  in  the  old  tower  as  a 
hermit,  beloved  and  reverenced  by  all.  In  this  tower  he 
died  in  the  year  580  and  under  the  grass  at  the  foot  of 
the  tower  he  was  buried.  Some  vestiges  of  this  Tower 
of  the  Withered  Arm  were  still  to  be  seen  as  late  as 
1650,  but  at  the  present  day  no  trace  of  it  is  to  be 
discovered. 

A  sanctuary,  in  the  form  of  a  little  chapel,  was  erected 
by  the  side  of  the  tower  to  keep  green  the  memory  of 
the  saint.  It  is  mentioned  in  a  Bull  issued  by  Pope 
Innocent  II  in  1137.  It  was  repaired  by  Charles 
Emmanuel  II,  Duke  of  Savoy,  about  1640  and  was 
dignified  by  an  inscription  in  marble.     Of  this  memorial 

chapel  also  no  vestige  now  exists. 

107 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

In  later  years,  when  the  Saracens  came,  they  estab- 
lished a  fortress — Le  petit  Fraxinet — on  Cap  de  St. 
Hospice  and  during  the  troubled  centuries  that  followed 
the  promontory  was  strongly  fortified  and  was  the  scene 
of  many  assaults  and  numerous  bombardments.  Of  these 
strongholds  not  a  stone  is  now  standing,  save  alone  the 
Emmanuel  Philibert  Tower,  of  which  an  account  is  given 
on  p.  110.  Between  the  years  1526  and  1528  the  cape 
was  occupied  by  the  Knights  of  St.  John  who  rendered 
great  service  during  the  famine  of  1527  and  promoted, 
in  many  ways,  the  commerce  along  the  coast. 

There  is  a  curious  legend  of  the  cape  which  relates 
to  the  time  of  the  saint,  for  it  belongs  to  fhe  year  575 
when  St.  Hospice  was  still  living  in  his  old  roofless  tower. 
It  is  the  Legend  of  the  Stream  of  Blood. 

On  a  certain  day  a  party  of  honest  folk — villagers 
and  monks — started  from  Cap  Ferrat  to  walk  up  to 
Eze.  Their  purpose  was  peaceful  and  indeed  they  seem 
to  have  been  merely  taking  a  stroll.  When  the  evening 
came  they  had  not  returned.  They  were  never  to  return ; 
for,  as  they  climbed  up  the  cliff,  they  were  set  upon  by 
a  gang  of  miscreants  and  murdered  to  a  man.  Plunder 
was  not  the  object  of  the  attack,  for  the  victims  were 
poor  but  they  were  disciples  of  St.  Hospice  and  the 
rehgion  taught  by  that  good  man  was  held  in  abhorrence 
by  the  profane.  As  no  trace  of  the  murderers  was  ever 
discovered  it  is  assumed  that  they  were  agents  of  the 
devil  and  that  they  had  come  direct  from  the  bottomless 
pit  on  this  especial  mission. 

On  the  following  morning  some  fishermen  were 
starting  in  their  boats  from  the  cove  where  now  stands 
the  village  of  St.  Jean.     The  morning  was  calm.     The 

io8 


CAP   DE   ST.   HOSPICE. 


ST.    HOSPICE  :    THE  MADONNA   AND   THE   TOWER. 


Cap  Ferrat  and  St.  Hospice 

sea  was  smooth  as  a  mirror  and  as  blue  as  the  petals  of 
the  gentian.  The  boatmen  were  amazed  to  see  a  crimson 
stream  coming  towards  them  on  the  surface  of  the  deep 
from  the  direction  of  Eze.  It  was  a  stream,  narrow 
and  straight,  and  as  clear  in  outline  as  a  ribbon  of 
scarlet  satin  drawn  across  a  sheet  of  blue  ice.  As  they 
approached  it  they  were  horrified  to  perceive  that  it  was 
blood,  warm  blood,  thick  and  gelatinous  looking.  It 
smelt  of  fresh  blood  and  from  it  rose  a  sickly  steam. 

As  the  men  drew  nearer  the  red  streak  began  to 
recede  in  the  direction  whence  it  came.  They  followed 
it.  It  led  them  to  the  beach  at  Eze.  They  landed  and 
saw  before  them  the  rivulet  of  blood  trickling,  in 
slow,  glutinous  ripples,  over  the  stones.  It  withdrew 
to  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  They  followed  and  as  they 
advanced  the  stream  still  retreated.  Looking  up  they 
could  see  it  coming  down  the  path  as  a  thick  red  band, 
with  clots  hanging  here  and  there  from  the  steps  and 
from  low-lying  brambles.  As  they  mounted  up  the  cliff 
the  stream  withdrew  before  them. 

Finally  the  fishermen  came  to  a  mossy  ledge,  where 
they  found  the  bodies  of  the  dead  villagers  lying  in  a 
tangled  heap.  Beneath  them  was  a  cross  which  they 
had  never  seen  before.  They  proceeded  at  once  to  bury 
the  victims  of  this  wicked  outrage.  The  ground  about 
was  rocky;  but,  as  they  dug,  the  rock  softened  and 
became  as  sand.  They  left  the  cross  as  they  had  found 
it  and,  after  offering  up  a  prayer  for  those  who  had 
passed  away,  they  walked  silently  down  the  path  to  their 
boats. 

St.  Jean  is  a  little  place  that  hangs  about  a  tiny 
harbour  full  of  fishing  boats.     It  is  quite  modern  or  at 

109 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

least  all  that  part  of  it  that  is  presented  to  the  eye  belongs 
to  the  period  of  to-day.  It  is  popular  because  it  is  sup- 
posed to  be  a  fisher  village  away  from  the  world,  and 
those  who  live  in  towns  love  fisher  villages,  since  they 
suggest  a  picturesque  quietness,  a  place  of  nets  and 
lobster  pots  and  of  sun-tanned  toilers  of  the  deep,  a 
primitive  spot  where  people  live  the  simple  life  in  vine- 
covered  cottages. 

Now  there  is  little  of  the  fisher  village  about  St.  Jean, 
not  even  the  smell.  There  are  certainly  nets  and  boats 
and  an  appropriate  brawniness  about  the  people ;  but  the 
fisher  village  element  is  wanting.  St.  Jean  is,  in  fact, 
a  popular  resort  for  the  humbler  type  of  holiday  folk,  a 
place  they  can  reach  in  the  beloved  tram  and  where  they 
can  eat  and  drink  and  be  merry.  The  whole  quay  front 
is  occupied  by  bars,  cafes  and  restaurants,  where  langouste 
can  be  enjoyed  and  that  rare  dish  the  houillahaisse  which 
is  claimed  to  be  a  speciality  of  the  place. 

St.  Hospice  would  not  approve  of  St.  Jean  in  its 
present  guise  and  could  he  find  the  way  back  to  his  tower 
he  would  be  horrified  by  the  placards  of  "American 
drinks  "  and  "  Afternoon  teas."  There  is  no  missionary 
spirit  abroad  in  St.  Jean,  nothing  of  the  old  monastic 
life.  The  early  morning  fishermen  would  never  again 
expect  to  see  a  stream  of  blood  creeping  over  the  tide. 
St.  Jean,  in  fact,  is  no  longer  adapted  for  miracles; 
while  its  romance  goes  little  beyond  the  romance  of  a 
lunch  in  the  open  air  by  a  harbour  side. 

Beyond  St.  Jean  is  the  point  of  Cap  de  St.  Hospice, 
a  low,  rocky  promontory  covered  with  firs,  olive  trees 
and  cactus.  On  the  extremity  of  the  cape  is  the  tower 
erected  by  Emmanuel  PhiHbert,  Duke  of  Savoy,  in  1561. 

no 


Cap  Ferrat  and  St.  Hospice 

It  is  a  structure  in  yellowish  stone,  plain,  round  and 
squat,  with  a  few  emplacements  for  small  guns  on  its 
summit  and  a  few  narrow  slits  in  its  uncompromising 
flanks.  It  is  as  insolent  and  as  defiant  a  structure  as  can 
be  imagined.  By  its  side  is  placed  a  most  astonishing 
object — a  newly-made  statue  of  the  Virgin,  some  28  feet 
in  height  and  nearly  as  tall  as  the  tower  itself.  The 
statue  stands  on  the  grass  facing  the  east,  is  of  a  bilious 
tint  but  otherwise  unpainted.  Few  more  incongruous 
things  have  ever  been  brought  together  in  this  world. 
The  statue  is  so  very  modern,  so  artificial  and  so  frail; 
while  the  tower  is  so  old,  so  primitive  and  so  coarse  in 
its  braggart  strength.  The  statue,  it  appears,  was  pro- 
vided by  the  subscriptions  of  the  faithful,  but  want  of 
funds  or  want  of  purpose  has  prevented  its  being  placed 
on  the  top  of  the  tower  where  it  was  intended  that  it 
should  ultimately  stand. 

The  tower  has  walls  of  enormous  thickness.  An 
upper  story  can  be  reached  by  a  stair  and  there  the  visitor 
[will  be  brought  face  to  face  with  the  most  substantial 
apparition  that  has  ever  been  found  in  a  mediaeval  strong- 
hold. He  will  find  himself,  when  near  the  roof,  con- 
fronted by  the  ashen  face  of  the  Madonna,  a  face  as  big 
as  a  boulder,  for  the  tower  is  occupied  by  a  model  of 
the  statue  which  is  of  the  same  proportions  as  the 
stupendous  image  itself.  To  complete  the  anomalies  of 
this  remarkable  household  the  ground  floor  of  the  tower 
is  occupied  by  a  family  surrounded  by  the  amenities  of 
a  cave  dwelling. 

Beyond  the  tower  is  the  chapel  of  St.  Hospice.  It 
is  a  humble,  barn-like  little  church  with  a  roof  of  red 
tiles  and  a  bell  gable.     It  is  comparatively  modern,  for 

III 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

it  has  been  in  existence  for  just  one  hundred  years.  It 
is  only  opened  once  annually — viz.  on  October  16th — 
for  the  celebration  of  the  Mass. 

The  spot  on  which  it  may  reasonably  be  assumed  that 
the  monastery  of  St.  Hospice  stood  is  occupied  by  a  cafe- 
restaurant  where  dancing  is  indulged  in  on  Sundays  and 
holidays  to  the  music  of  a  pianola.  One  wonders  what 
the  saint — who  was  eloquent  and  forcible  of  speech — 
would  say  if  he  could  visit  again  the  cape  that  bears  his 
name. 

There  are  some  half -buried  fragments  of  old  walls  on 
the  promontory,  and  these  the  imaginative  man,  if  free 
from  scruples,  can  assume  to  belong  to  whatever  build- 
ing and  whatever  period  in  the  history  of  the  place  he 
may  particularly  affect. 

From  the  point  of  the  spit  is  a  fascinating  view  of 
the  mainland  and  especially  of  Eze  which  stands  exactly 
opposite  to  St.  Hospice.  La  Turbie  also  can  be  seen 
at  great  advantage.  It  lies  in  the  col  between  Mont 
Agel  and  the  Tete  de  Chien  and  marks  the  place  of 
crossing  of  the  Roman  road. 

On  the  coast,  on  either  side  of  Cap  Ferrat,  are 
respectively  Beaulieu  and  Villefranche.  Beaulieu  is  a 
super-village  of  sumptuous  villas.  It  lies  on  an  evergreen 
shelf  by  the  sea,  pampered  by  an  indulgent  climate,  made 
gorgeous  by  an  extravagant  vegetation  and  provided  by 
all  the  delights  that  the  most  florid  house  agent  could 
invent.  It  breathes  luxury  and  wealth,  languid  ease  and 
a  surfeit  of  comfort.  It  can  be  best  viewed  from  the 
Mid-Corniche  road  on  the  way  up  to  Eze.  Here  the 
envious  can  lean  over  a  wall  and  look  down  upon  Naboth's 
vineyard,  upon  a  village  which  is  possibly  the  richest  in 

112 


VILLEFRANGHE  :    THE   MAIN   STREET. 


Cap  Ferrat  and  St.  Hospice 

Europe  and  upon  gardens  whose  glory  is  nowhere  to 
be  surpassed. 

Villefranche,  the  harbour  town,  lies  across  the  blue 
lagoon.  It  is  as  little  like  Beaulieu  as  any  place  could 
be,  for  whatever  Beaulieu  boasts  of  Villefranche  lacks. 
It  is  a  very  ancient  town ;  but  it  has  been  so  persistently 
modernised  that  it  has  an  aspect  of  the  present  day.  It 
is  like  an  old  face  that  has  been  painted  and  powdered 
and  "made  up  "  to  look  young.  The  result  as  regards 
the  town  is  like  the  result  as  regards  the  face — an  im- 
perfect success ;  for  in  the  dim  lanes  of  Villefranche  are 
still  to  be  traced  the  wrinkles  of  old  age,  while  the  grey 
of  its  withered  stones  is  still  quite  apparent  even  under 
a  toupee  of  auburn  tiles. 

There  are  boats  everywhere,  not  only  in  the  harbour 
and  on  the  quay  but  up  the  streets,  where  they  are  being 
patched  and  hammered  at.  The  quay  is  carpeted  with 
nets  and  among  them  old  women  in  straw  hats  are  sitting 
on  low  chairs  repairing  broken  strands.  Ducks  are 
wandering  about  and  against  any  support  that  Is  solid 
enough  a  thoughtful  mariner  is  leaning. 

At  the  south  end  of  Villefranche  is  the  citadel,  a 
lusty,  rambling  fortress  built  in  1560  by  Emmanuel 
Philibert  about  the  time  that  he  erected  the  very  gallant 
fort  which  still  stands  on  the  summit  of  Mont  Alban, 
high  above  the  town.  The  citadel  is  now  grey  and  green 
with  age,  is  much  humiliated  by  certain  modern  build- 
ings, but  still  is  cut  off  from  the  world  by  a  terrifying 
moat  spanned  by  a  timid  bridge  and  is  still  said  to  retain 
in  its  depths  some  dreadful  dungeons. 

Villefranche  is  on  a  slope  and  thus  it  is  that  all  lanes 
leading  up  from  the  quay  are  very  steep  and,  indeed,  are 

^  113 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

stairs  rather  than  streets.  Some  are  quite  picturesque, 
especially  such  as  pass  under  archways  and  through  vaulted 
passages.  There  are  a  bewildering  number  of  bars,  cafes 
and  wine-shops  along  the  sea  front  which  bear  testimony 
to  that  thirst  which  is  a  feature  in  the  physiology  of  the 
mariner.  A  well  known  author  has  described  an  English 
village  as  made  up  of  "public  houses  and  drawbacks." 
He  would  probably  speak  of  Villefranche  as  a  compound 
of  bars  and  stairs. 

One  of  the  most  exciting  days  in  the  history  of  Ville- 
franche happened  in  the  year  1523  when  "  The  Great 
Ship  "  was  launched  and  when  the  people  either  screamed 
themselves  hoarse  with  elation  or  were  rendered  dumb 
by  surprise.  This  Leviathan  of  the  Deep  was  built  by 
the  Knights  Templars.  The  dimensions  of  the  fearsome 
vessel  have  probably  grown  with  the  passage  of  time,  but 
quite  temperate  historians  describe  her  as  possessed  of 
six  decks  and  as  furnished  with  a  powder  store,  a  chapel 
and  a  bakehouse.  She  carried  a  crew  of  300  men. 
Writers  with  a  riper  imagination  assert  that  she  was 
covered  with  lead  and  that  so  terrific  was  her  weight 
that  she  could  sink  fifty  galleys.  Things  grow  as  the 
centuries  pass.  It  would  be  of  interest  to  learn  to  what 
proportions  the  ephemeral  image  of  the  Virgin,  on  the 
opposite  cape,  will  have  attained  in  the  next  four 
hundred  years. 

Villefranche  and  Cap  de  St.  Hospice  are  both  con- 
cerned in  the  astounding  journey  that  was  made  by  the 
dead  body  of  Paganini. 

Paganini,   the  immortal   violinist,   died   at   Nice  on 

May  27th,  1840,  in  the  Rue  de  la  Prefecture  in  a  house 

which  has  been  already  indicated  (page  25).     He  died 

114 


» 

Q 

o 

Pi 


«>j 


Cap  Ferrat  and  St.  Hospice 

of  tuberculosis  at  the  age  of  56.  His  religious  opinions 
appear  to  have  been  indistinct  and  his  religious  observances 
even  less  pronounced.  In  the  closing  hours  of  his  life 
he  ,was  denied  or  failed  to  receive  the  last  rites  of  the 
Church  and,  after  his  death,  the  clergy  refused  to  allow 
his  body  to  be  buried  in  consecrated  ground. 

On  the  day  following  his  decease  the  coffin  was  de- 
posited in  the  cellar  of  a  house  near  by,  a  house  that 
stands  at  the  junction  of  the  Rue  de  la  Prefecture  and 
the  Rue  Ste.  Reparate.^  The  cellar  was  in  the  posses- 
sion of  a  friendly  hatter.  The  body  then  appears  to 
have  been  removed  to  an  "apartment"  in  a  hospital 
at  Nice,  but  the  facts  at  this  point  in  the  narrative  are 
confused.^ 

Paganini's  son  took  action  against  the  bishop  for  re- 
fusing to  permit  the  body  to  be  buried  within  the  pale 
of  the  Church.  In  this  action  young  Paganini  failed.  He 
appealed  against  the  decision  of  the  clergy  and  the  matter 
was  finally  referred  to  the  Papal  Court  at  Rome.  Pend- 
ing judgment  the  body  was  taken  to  Villefranche  and 
placed  in  a  lazaretto  there.  In  about  a  month  the  smell 
emitted  by  the  corpse  was  complained  of  and  accordingly 
the  coffin  was  taken  out  of  the  building  and  placed  on 
the  open  beach  near  the  water's  edge. 

This  gave  great  distress  to  the  friends  of  the  dead 
artist  and  so  one  night  a  party  of  five  of  them  took  up 
the  coffin  and  carried  it  by  torch-light  round  the  bay  to 
the  point  of  Cap  de  St.  Hospice.  Here  they  buried  it 
close  to  the  sea  and  just  below  the  old  round  tower  which 

*  The  house  Is  now  a  tailor's  shop.     Neither  of  these  houses  is  Indicated 
by  any  tablet  or  inscription,  as  has  been  sometimes  stated. 

"  "  The  Romance  of  Nice,"  by  John  D.  Loveland,  London,  1911. 

1 15 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

still  stands  on  this  spit  of  land.  Over  the  coffin  was 
placed  a  slab  of  stone.  All  this  happened  within  a  year 
of  the  maestro 's  death. 

In  1841  the  son  decided  to  take  the  body  from  the 
Cap  de  St.  Hospice  and  convey  it  to  Genoa,  because  it 
was  in  Genoa  that  his  father  was  born.  Here  it  was 
hoped  he  could  be  laid  at  rest.  A  ship  was  obtained 
and  the  coffin  was  lifted  from  the  grave  near  the  old 
tower  and  placed  on  the  deck.  When  Genoa  was  reached 
the  party  with  the  coffin  were  not  allowed  to  land  be- 
cause the  vessel  had  come  from  Marseilles  and  at  that 
port  cholera  was  raging. 

The  ship  thereupon  turned  back  and  sailing  west- 
wards brought  the  dead  man  to  Cannes.  Here  also  per- 
mission to  land  a  coffin,  which  was  already  highly  sus- 
pected, was  refused.  The  position  seemed  desperate  but 
near  Cannes  are  the  Lerin  Islands  and  among  them  the 
barren  and  lonely  rock  known  as  Sainte  Ferreol.  Here 
the  body  was  once  more  buried  and  again  covered  with 
a  stone.  On  this  strange  little  desert  island  it  remained, 
in  utter  loneliness,  for  four  years,  in  the  company  only 
of  the  seabirds  and  of  some  blue  iris  flowers  that  made 
the  rock  less  pitiable. 

Now  it  seemed  to  Achillino  Paganini  a  heartless  thing 
to  leave  his  father's  body  in  this  bleak,  forsaken  spot. 
The  great  musician  had  some  property  at  Parma  and 
it  was  considered  well  that  the  body  should  be  taken 
there  and  buried  in  his  own  land  and  in  his  native  Italy. 
So  the  dead  man  was  carried  away  from  the  island  and 
w^as  buried  in  a  garden  in  his  own  country  and  amid 
kindly  and  familiar  scenes.  This  voyage  was  accom- 
plished without  mishap  in  1845. 

ii6 


Cap  Ferrat  and  St.  Hospice 

For  some  unknown  reason  it  was  determined  in  1853 
that  the  body  should  be  re-embalmed.  So  the  coffin 
was  once  more  dug  up  and  the  gruesome  ceremony 
carried  out.  The  wanderings  of  the  dead  man  had,  how- 
ever, not  yet  come  to  an  end  for  in  1876  permission  was 
granted  by  the  Papal  Court  to  lay  the  body  within  the 
walls  of  a  Christian  church.  So  once  more  the  corpse 
was  exhumed  and  conveyed,  with  all  solemnity,  to  the 
church  of  the  Madonna  della  Staccata  in  Parma  where 
it  was  placed  in  a  tomb.  By  this  time  no  less  than  thirty- 
six  years  had  passed  since  the  poor  dead  master  com- 
menced his  strange  journey. 

But  even  now  he  had  not  come  upon  peace ;  for  in 
1893  a  certain  Hungarian  violinist  suggested  that  the 
body  in  the  church  was  not  that  of  the  adored  musician. 
Thus  it  happened  that  once  again  the  corpse  was  exhumed 
and  once  again  the  coffin  opened.  The  son,  who  was 
still  alive,  permitted  an  investigation  to  be  made.  Those 
who  looked  into  the  coffin  saw  lying  there  the  form  of 
the  man  who  had  enchanted  the  world.  The  black  coat 
that  he  wore  was  in  tatters,  but  it  was  his  coat.  The 
face,  too,  they  recognised,  the  gaunt,  thin  face,  the  side 
whiskers  and  the  long  hair  that  fell  over  the  neck  and 
covered  the  white  bones  of  the  shoulder  and  the  gleaming 
ribs. 


117 


XIV 

THE   STORY   OF   EZE 

EZE  is  a  curious  name  and  the  name  of  a  still 
more  curious  place.  Eze,  indeed,  by  reason  of 
its  grim  history  and  its  astonishing  position 
on  a  lone  pinnacle  of  rock,  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating 
towns  in  the  Riviera.  Its  past  has  been  more  tumultuous 
and  more  tragic  than  that  probably  of  any  settlement 
of  its  size  in  Provence.  It  has  seen  much,  has  done 
much  and,  above  all,  has  suffered  much,  for  its  cup  of 
sorrows  has  been  overflowing. 

It  is  a  place  of  extreme  antiquity ;  since  people  lived 
within  its  rampart  of  rocks  before  the  dawn  of  history. 
Some  maintain  that  the  Phoenicians,  after  expelling 
these  raw  natives,  fortified  Eze,  but  then  that  ubiquitous 
and  pushing  people  seems — at  one  time  or  another — to 
have  occupied  every  place  on  the  seaboard  of  Europe 
that  can  admit  of  some  obscurity  in  its  history. 

Certain  it  is  that  the   Romans   when  they   landed 

possessed   themselves    of   this   town   on    the    cliff    and 

established  a  harbour  in  the  bay  which  lies  at  its  foot. 

When  they,  in  their  turn,  had  embarked  in  their  galleys 

and  sailed  away  the  Lombards  appeared,  murdered  all 

they  could  find,  burned  everything  that  would  burn  and 

robbed  to  the  best  of  their  exceptional  abilities.     This 

episode  is  ascribed  to  the  year  578.     The  death-rate  at 

ii8 


The  Story  of  Eze 

Eze  must  always  have  been  very  high,  but  during  the 
time  that  the  Lombards  were  busy  in  the  district  it  must 
have  risen  almost  to  annihilation. 

The  Lombards  and  their  kin  held  on  to  Eze,  in  an 
unsteady  fashion,  for  nearly  200  years  and  when  they 
had  finished  with  it  the  Saracens  entered  upon  the  scene. 
These  talented  scoundrels  crept  up  the  cliff  in  swarms 
and,  with  such  bloodshedding  as  the  limited  material  at 
their  disposal  would  allow,  settled  themselves  upon  the 
point  of  rock  and  proceeded  to  consolidate  its  position 
as  a  den  of  thieves.  This  disturbing  change  of  tenancy 
is  said  to  have  taken  place  in  740  and  as  the  Saracens 
were  not  driven  from  Provence  until  980  they  were 
longer  in  residence  than  the  Lombards.  They  are 
credited  with  having  built  the  castle — or  rather  the  first 
castle — of  Eze.  They  made  slaves  of  as  many  of  the 
natives  as  they  could  capture,  spoke  in  a  strange  tongue, 
made  themselves  a  horror  in  the  land  and,  in  general 
terms,  did  inconceivable  things.  Eze  was  one  of  the 
last  strongholds  of  the  Saracens  on  the  Riviera  and  in 
order  to  make  the  evacuation  of  the  place  complete  the 
town  was  razed  to  the  ground. 

After  the  last  Saracens  had  clattered  down  the  little 

zigzag  path  to  their  boats  Eze  fell  upon  still  more  evil 

days.     It  entered  upon  a  period  of  unease  so  protracted 

that  for  centuries  it  was  never  certain  of  its  fate  from 

one  day  to  another.    It  was  taken  and  retaken  over  and 

over  again.     It  was  starved  into  submission  at  one  time 

and  burnt  to  the  rock  edge  at  another.    It  was  occupied 

now  by  the  Guelphs  and  now  by  the  Ghibellines.     It 

belonged  one  year  to  the  House  of  Anjou  and  the  next 

to   the   Counts   of  Provence.      It   was   at   one  time   a 

119 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

dependency  of  Naples  and  at  another  time  of  Monaco. 
It  was  bartered  about  like  an  old  hat  and  sold  or  bought 
with  a  flaunting  disregard  of  the  sentiment  of  the  people 
who  were  sold  with  it.  Finally  in  the  fourteenth  century 
it  was  sold  to  Amadeus  of  Savoy  in  whose  family  it 
remained — with  the  exception  of  twenty-two  years  during 
the  Revolution — down  to  its  cession  to  France  in  1860.^ 

It  was  visited  by  plague  and  devastated  by  fever.  It 
had  a  varied  experience  of  assassination,  of  poisoning 
and  of  modes  of  torture;  while  its  information  on  the 
subject  of  sudden  death  and  its  varieties  must  have  been 
very  full.  In  order — it  would  seem — that  its  knowledge 
of  every  form  of  fulminating  violence  might  be  complete 
it  was  shaken  by  earthquake  and  mutilated  by  lightning. 

The  vicissitudes  of  Eze  were  indeed  many.  At  one 
period  it  was  the  terror  of  the  coast,  supreme  in  villainy 
and  unique  in  f rightfulness ;  while,  at  another  time,  it 
was  a  seat  of  letters  frequented  by  poets.  It  had  its 
moments  of  exaltation  as  in  1246  when  Rostagno  and 
Ferrando,  Lords  of  Eze,  had  rights  over  Monaco  and 
Turbia  and  its  moments  of  misery  when  it  was  little 
more  than  a  howling  ruin  too  bare  to  attract  even  a 
starving  robber. 

Eze  too  has  seen  unwonted  folk.  Every  type  of 
scoundrel  that  Europe  could  produce,  during  the  Middle 
Ages,  must,  at  one  time  or  another,  have  rollicked  and 
drank  and  sworn  within  its  walls.  The  strange  troopers 
who  strutted  up  and  down  its  astonished  lanes  in  the 
spring  would  often  be  replaced  by  still  stranger  blusterers 
before  the  winter  came.  During  the  time  that  Eze  was 
a  favourite   resort   of  pirates  it  reached   its   climax  in 

»  "  The  Riviera,"  Macmillan,  1885. 
120 


.rt-  -.      .       >     t  ■  .  \ 


N 


V^Jiki/^" 


The  Story  of  Eze 

picturesqueness ;  for  then  its  vaulted  passages  must  have 
been  bright  with  strange  goods,  its  streets  with  curiously- 
garbed  captives  and  its  inns  filled  with  seamen  who 
roared  forth  villainous  songs  and  then  fell  to  fighting 
with  knives  over  some  such  trifle  as  a  stolen  crucifix  or 
a  lady's  petticoat. 

Southampton  is  a  long  way  from  Eze  but,  if  certain 
records  be  reliable,  the  association  of  the  two  sea  towns 
is  very  close.  During  the  hostilities  between  France  and 
England,  in  the  time  of  Edward  III,  a  fleet  consisting 
of  50  galleys — French,  Spanish  and  Genoese — arrived  at 
Southampton  in  1338  and  landed  a  large  body  of  men. 
The  fleet  was  under  the  general  orders  of  the  French 
admiral,  but  the  Genoese  division  was  commanded  by 
Carlo  Grimaldi  of  Monaco,  the  famous  seaman. 

The  landing  party  swarmed  over  the  walls  of  the 
town  or  burst  through  the  gates;  they  *' killed  all  that 
opposed  them;  then  entering  the  houses  they  instantly 
hanged  many  of  the  superior  inhabitants,  plundered  the 
town  and  reduced  great  part  of  it  to  ashes."  ^  Accord- 
ing to  Stowe,  in  his  "  Annals,"  this  very  effective 
assault  took  place  at  "  nine  of  the  clock  "  and  the  towns- 
men ran  away  for  fear.  "  By  the  breake  of  the  next 
day,"  adds  Stowe,  "they  which  fled,  by  help  of  the 
country  thereabout,  came  against  the  pyrates  and  fought 
them;  in  which  skirmish  were  slain  to  the  number  of 
300  pyrates,  together  with  their  captain,  a  young  soldier 
the  King  of  Sicilis  son."  The  entry  into  the  town  was 
made  at  the  lower  end  of  Bugle  Street. 

1  John  Ballar,  "  Historical  Particulars  relative  to  Southampton,"  1820. 
John  Stowe,  "  Annals,"  London,  1631.  J.  S.  Davies,  "  History  of  South- 
ampton," 1883. 

121 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Now  it  is  stated  that  the  marauding  party  that 
attacked  Southampton  was  composed,  for  the  most  part, 
of  men  from  the  Genoese  division  of  the  fleet  and  that 
the  assault  was  led  and  the  looting  directed  by  Carlo 
Grimaldi  in  person.  Grimaldi's  share  of  the  plunder 
was  so  substantial  that  on  his  return  to  Monaco  he 
purchased  with  the  money  the  town  of  Eze  in  1341. 

It  thus  comes  to  pass  that  some  of  the  savings  of 
honest  Hampshire  citizens  have  been  invested  at  one 
time  in  this  very  unattractive  property. 


122 


XV 

THE   TROUBADOURS    OF   EZE 

ABOUT  the  beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century 
there  hved  at  Eze  two  troubadours,  Blacas  and 
Blacasette  by  name,  father  and  son.  They  were 
Catalans  by  birth ;  but  the  family  had  settled  in  Provence 
and  the  two  singers  found  themselves  in  the  suite  of 
Raymond  Berenger,  the  Count  of  Provence.  How  it 
was  that  they  came  to  Eze  and  how  long  they  resided 
there  is  not  known.  Durandy  states  that  the  Blacas 
were  owners  of  the  manor  of  Eze  and  in  describing  the 
sack  of  the  town  in  1543  he  speaks  of  the  castle  as  "  the 
castle  of  the  Blacas."^ 

Certain  it  is  that  they  were  both  men  of  position 
and  were  both  much  esteemed.  Blacas,  his  biographer 
asserts,  was  admired  more  for  "the  nobleness  of  his 
manners"  than  for  the  merit  of  his  poems. ^  The  two 
of  them  wrote  and  dreamed  of  love  and  of  fair  women, 
of  gardens  and  green  fields.  They  formed  for  themselves 
a  little  literary  circle,  as  if  they  were  living  in  Old 
Chelsea,  held  Courts  of  Love  and  meetings  with  their 
poet  friends  in  which  they  competed  with  one  another. 
Indeed  the  first  known  poem  of  Blacas  (written  before 

^  Durandy,  "  Mon  Pays,  Villages,  etc.,  de  la  Riviera,"  1918. 
»  "  Histoire  litt6raire  de  la  France,"  t.  xix,  1838.     Reynouard,  "  Choix  des 
Po6sies  orig.  des  Troubadours,"  1816-21. 

123 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

1190)  was  a  tanzon  with  the  troubadour  Peyrols.  A 
tanzon,  it  may  be  explained,  was  a  competition  in 
verse,  the  rhymers  concerned  contributing  alternate 
couplets. 

For  those  who  are  curious  as  to  the  kind  of  poetry 
that  rippled  over  the  walls  of  Eze  I  append  a  verse  by 
Blacas  translated  into  the  French  of  a  later  period  from 
the  Provencal  in  which  it  was  written. 

'^  Le  doix  et  heau  temps  me  plait, 
Et  la  gaie  saison 
Et  le  chant  des  oiseaux; 
Et  si  ydtais  autant  aimS 
Que  je  suis  amoureux. 
Me  ferait  grande  courtoisie. 
Ma  belle  douce  amie. 
Mais  puisque  nul  hien  ne  me  fait 
Helas  I  eh  done  que  deviendrai-je  ? 
Tant  j^attendrai  en  aimant 
Jusqu'a  ce  que  je  meure  en  suppliant, 
Puisqu^elle  le  veut  ainsi,^* 

The  picture  of  a  troubadour  writing  little  love  ditties 
in  this  most  woeful  place  is  as  anomalous,  and  indeed 
as  incongruous,  as  the  picture  of  a  lady  manicuring  her 
hands  during  the  crisis  of  a  shipwreck.  The  sound  of 
these  songs  as  they  floated — like  a  scented  breeze — down 
the  lanes  of  the  putrid  town  must  have  been  interrupted, 
now  and  then,  by  the  shriek  of  a  strangled  man  in  a 
cellar  or  the  shout  of  the  trembling  watchman  on  the 
castle  roof. 

The  two  troubadours  loved  war.     Blacasette  penned 

124 


EZE  :    THE   MAIN   GATE. 
The  scene  of  the  treachery  of  Gaspard  de  CaVs. 


The  Troubadours  of  Eze 

enthusiastic  verses  about  it.  He  thought  it  an  excellent 
pursuit,  a  measure  much  to  be  desired,  a  thing  of  which 
it  was  impossible  to  have  too  much.  Had  he  lived  at  the 
present  day  he  would  probably  have  modified  his  views. 
He  was,  however,  no  mere  dreamer.  He  carried  his 
theories  into  practice  and  took  to  fighting  when  he  could. 
He  was  engaged  in  the  war  which,  in  1228,  Raymond 
Berenger  waged  against  the  independent  towns  of 
Avignon,  Marseilles,  Toulon,  Grasse  and  Nice.  He  came 
out  of  the  fray  alive,  for  he  did  not  die  until  some  time 
between  the  years  1265  and  1270. 

Blacas  was  married.  His  wife  was  Ughetta  de  Baus. 
The  marriage  came  to  an  abrupt  end ;  for  one  day  Ughetta 
walked  off  with  her  sister  Amilheta,  entered  a  convent  and 
took  the  veil.  This  precipitate  step  caused  Blacas  con- 
siderable distress,  for  he  is  described  as  being  "plunged 
in  profound  sorrow.*' 

Ughetta  was  probably  not  to  blame ;  for  Blacas  as  a 
husband  and  at  the  same  time  a  troubadour  must  have 
been  very  trying.  From  a  professional  point  of  view  he 
loved  women  as  a  body.  That  was  a  part  of  his  business 
and  no  doubt  Ughetta  became  tired  of  his  violent  and 
continual  ravings  about  women  with  whom  she  was  but 
slightly  acquainted.  Moreover  her  home  life  in  Eze  must 
have  been  very  unsettled.  Blacas  would  one  day  be 
humming  songs  about  a  new  lady  at  the  dinner  table 
and  the  next  day  he  would  be  turning  the  house  upside 
down  in  order  to  hold  a  Court  of  Love ;  while,  perhaps, 
on  the  third  morning  he  would  be  off  to  a  war  he  had 
just  heard  of.  Ughetta  no  doubt  talked  this  over  with 
her  sister — who  may  possibly  have  married  a  troubadour 
herself — and  the  two  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the 

125 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

quiet  of  a  convent  would  be  a  pleasant  change  after  life 
with  a  crazy  poet  in  Eze. 

Blacasette — who  wrote  with  facile  elegance — was  more 
fortunate  than  his  father.  He  fell  harmlessly  in  love  with 
a  grande  dame  or  imagined  that  he  had  and  most  of  the 
poems  of  his  that  survive  are  amatory  sonnets  devoted  to 
his  "  sweet  lady."  The  position  was  made  awkward  by 
the  fact  that  the  sweet  lady  was  already  married  and  was, 
moreover,  the  wife  of  no  less  a  person  than  Blacasette 's 
master,  Raymond  Berenger*  Nothing,  of  course,  came 
of  this.  The  lady  remained  unmoved  and  was  probably 
much  bored  by  the  receipt  of  these  florid  effusions ;  while 
the  troubadour  did  not  feel  called  upon  to  retire  to  a 
monastery,  nor  to  take  any  action  that  was  excessive. 
In  fact  the  love-making  was  purely  academic  and  little 
more  than  a  display  in  verse  making. 

The  "  sweet  lady  "  was  truly  a  grande  dame,  for  she 
was  the  famous  Beatrix  of  Savoy.  She  married  in  1219 
and  had  four  remarkable  daughters,  the  most  illustrious 
bevy  of  girls  of  almost  any  age.  One,  Beatrix,  succeeded 
her  father  and  became  the  Countess  of  Provence  ;  another, 
Eleanor,  married  Henry  III  of  England;  a  third,  with 
the  pretty  name  of  Sancia,  married  King  Henry's  brother, 
Richard,  Duke  of  Cornwall ;  while  Marguerite — the  fairest 
of  them  all — became  the  wife  of  Louis  IX. 


126 


XVI 

HOW    EZE    WAS    BETRAYED 

IN  August,  1543,  the  citadel  of  Nice  was  besieged  by 
the  French  army  of  Francis  I  aided  by  the  Turkish 
fleet  under  the  command  of  the  corsair  Barbarossa. 
The  siege  failed  as  has  been  already  recounted  (page  29). 
The  next  obvious  step  for  the  French  was  to  attack  and 
destroy  Eze,  which  lay  behind  Nice  and  was  an  obstacle 
to  any  further  progress.  It  is  necessary  to  realise  that 
— at  this  period — both  Nice  and  Eze  were  beyond  the 
frontiers  of  France,  were  foreign  towns  and,  at  the 
moment,  enemy  towns. 

The  Turkish  fleet,  supplemented  by  many  French 
galleys,  accordingly  set  sail  for  the  Bay  of  Eze,  carrying 
iwith  it  irregular  troops,  both  French  and  Turkish,  to  the 
number,  it  is  said,  of  2,000.  Now  Barbarossa,  being 
a  finished  pirate  of  ripe  experience,  would  be  aware  that 
the  taking  of  Eze  from  the  sea  was — as  a  military  project 
— quite  impossible.  Eze  stood  on  a  cone  of  rock  1,400 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  Mediterranean  and  could  only 
be  reached  from  the  shore  by  a  narrow  path  which  was 
actually  precipitous.  To  bring  cannon  to  bear  upon  the 
town  from  any  point,  high  or  low,  on  either  side  of  it, 
was  impracticable.  It  could  only  be  taken  by  a  body  of 
infantry  and  to  the  attacks  of  such  a  force  Eze  was 

impregnable. 

127 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Still  Rcdbeard  the  pirate  sailed  on  with  complete 
content.  He  was  not  only  content ;  he  was  happy.  He 
had  a  treasure  in  his  galley,  a  treasure  in  the  form  of  a 
man  who  was  probably  sitting  alone  in  the  pirate's  cabin, 
deep  in  thought.  Barbarossa  would  take  a  peep  at  him 
now  and  then,  rub  his  hands  and  smile.  The  name  of  this 
man  was  Gaspard  de  Cais  and  he  was  one  of  the  most 
poisonous  scoundrels  that  had  ever  lived.  He  was  a  native 
of  the  country  the  admiral  was  proceeding  to  invade.  He 
was  a  loathsome  traitor  who  had  gone  over  to  the  French 
and,  for  a  certain  sum,  had  engaged  to  betray  his  country 
and  the  town  of  Eze  together  with  friends  among  whom 
he  had  spent  his  youth.  The  bribe  might  have  been  large 
but,  valued  as  a  really  corrupt  ruffian,  Gaspard  was  beyond 
price. 

When  the  Bay  of  Eze  was  reached  this  sneaking  hound 
was  landed  with  a  few  French  and  Italian  soldiers — 
Italian  because  they  spoke  a  language  more  akin  to  the 
speech  of  Eze.  Barbarossa  would  like  to  have  kicked  the 
knave  off  the  boat  but  he  was  not  a  censor  of  morals 
and  he  wanted  to  take  the  town. 

De  Cais  and  his  small  company  proceeded  to  climb 
up  to  Eze.  It  was  September  and,  therefore,  one  of 
the  hottest  months  of  the  year.  What  with  the  heat  and 
the  burden  of  his  conscience  Gaspard  must  have  found 
the  ascent  trying ;  for  even  in  modern  times  with  a  modern 
path  the  clamber  up  to  the  town  from  the  shore  is  a 
feat  of  endurance  that  the  hardiest  tourist  will  scarcely 
undertake  twice. 

In  due  course  the  perspiring  traitor  reached  the  gate 
of  Eze — the  identical  gate  that  stands  before  the  entrance 
of  the  town  to  this  day.     He  would  be  stopped  by  the 

128 


How  Eze  was  Betrayed 

guard  and  asked  his  business.  Mopping  his  face  he  would 
reply,  with  a  smile,  that  he  wished  a  word  with  the 
governor.  After  some  delay  the  governor,  attended  by 
an  officer  or  two,  appeared  and  Gaspard,  greeting  him  as 
an  old  comrade,  whispered  in  his  ear  that  the  Turkish 
fleet  was  in  the  Bay  and  would  attempt  to  take  the  town. 
This  was  possibly  the  only  time  that  Gaspard  ever  spoke 
the  truth  ;  for,  in  fact,  the  fleet  was  below  and  the  admiral 
did  undoubtedly  desire  to  capture  the  town.  De  Ca'is 
then  lapsed  into  lying  which  became  him  better.  He 
explained  that  as  a  patriot  and  a  lover  of  Eze  he  had 
come  to  warn  the  governor  of  the  peril  ahead  and  to 
place  his  poor  services  and  those  of  his  humble  followers 
at  the  disposal  of  the  garrison.  "  Would  he  come  in.f*  " 
He  came  in. 

Now  it  must  be  explained  that  Gaspard  had  as  a 
friend  and  co-partner  in  crime  no  less  a  person  than  his 
fellow  countryman,  the  Lord  of  Gorbio.  This  prince  was 
known  by  the  unpleasing  name  of  the  Bastard  of  Gorbio 
for  he  was  a  disreputable  scion  of  the  noble  house  of 
Grimaldi.  He  was,  if  possible,  a  more  contemptible 
rogue  than  Gaspard.  He  had  confederates  in  Eze  and 
a  number  of  traitorous  men  in  his  pay  hidden  among  the 
rocks  about  the  entrance. 

As  soon  as  Gaspard  de  Cais  and  his  companions  were 
well  within  the  gate  they  suddenly  drew  their  swords  and, 
with  a  shout,  fell  like  madmen  upon  the  unsuspecting 
guard  who  were  still  standing  at  attention.  This  was  a 
signal  to  the  Bastard  and  to  his  friends  within  and  with- 
out the  town.  These  worthies  all  rushed  to  the  gate  and 
in  a  few  moments  the  governor  and  the  gallant  guard  of 
Eze  were  dead  or  dying. 

J  129 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

All  this  time  the  Turks,  in  single  file,  were  crawling 
up  the  zigzag  path  from  the  boats,  like  a  great  brown 
serpent,  a  mile  long,  gliding  up  out  of  the  water.  They 
poured  in  through  the  gate,  panting  and  yelling,  and 
continued  to  pour  in  for  hours.  Barbarossa  now  could 
laugh  aloud  and  did  no  doubt  guffaw  heartily  enough  for 
Eze  the  impregnable  was  taken  with  scarcely  the  loss  of 
a  man. 

What  followed  is,  in  the  language  of  novelists,  **  better 
imagined  than  described";  simply  because  it  is  easy  to 
imagine  but  difficult  to  describe. 

Eze  the  betrayed  became  the  scene  of  a  blurred  orgy 
of  house  burning,  murder  and  pillage.  The  town  with  all 
that  was  in  it  was  to  be  wiped  off  the  face  of  the  earth. 
The  order  could  not  have  been  carried  out  more  thoroughly 
or  more  heartily  if  it  had  been  executed  by  the  Germans 
of  the  present  day.  There  was  no  resistance.  There  was 
to  be  no  quarter  and  no  prisoners.  Everything  went 
**  according  to  plan." 

The  narrowness  of  the  lanes  rendered  the  process  of 
hacking  a  population  to  death  cramped,  slow  and  very 
horrible.  Every  street  and  alley  was  soon  blocked  with 
the  dead  and  the  dying.  The  first  clatter  of  hurrying  feet 
was  soon  hushed ;  for  those  who  pressed  on  and  those  who 
fled  trod  upon  yielding  bodies.  A  whole  family  would 
be  lying  dead  in  an  entry ;  the  man  at  the  front,  the  baby 
and  the  mother  behind. 

Here  would  be  the  corpse  of  a  Turk  sprawling  over 
the  bundle  of  loot  he  was  in  the  act  of  carrying  away. 
Here  would  be  a  woman's  dead  hand  cut  off  at  the 
wrist,  but  still  clinging  to  the  handle  of  a  door.  Here 
a  disembowelled  man,   still  alive,   trying  to  crawl  into 

130 


How  Eze  was  Betrayed 

a  cellar  and  there  a  half-charred  body  dangling  from 
the  window  of  a  burning  house. 

It  is  always  customary  to  say,  in  the  account  of  scenes 
like  this,  that  *'  the  streets  ran  with  blood,'*  but  it  is  not 
so.  The  state  is  far  more  hideous,  since  blood  clots  so 
soon  that  it  will  not  nm. 

The  noise  must  have  been  peculiarly  dreadful,  an 
awful  medley  of  the  shouts  of  men,  the  shrieks  of  the 
butchered,  the  moans  of  the  dying,  mingled  with  the 
roaring  of  flames  and  the  fall  of  blazing  timbers.  Now 
and  then,  among  the  din,  would  be  heard  the  crash  of 
an  axe  upon  a  skull,  the  crack  of  a  sword  upon  the 
tense  bones  of  a  bent  back,  the  muffled  thud  of  a  dagger, 
the  hammer-blow  of  a  club. 

The  sunlight  and  the  blue  of  heaven  were  shut  off  by 
a  pall  of  smoke ;  while  suffocating  clouds  filled  many  a  lane 
with  the  blackness  of  night. 

Such  fortifications  as  could  be  destroyed  were  levelled 
to  the  ground,  and  the  castle  that  crowned  the  hill  was 
blown  up  by  its  own  magazine.  The  gate — the  fatal  gate 
— was  untouched  and  stands  to  this  day  to  testify  to  the 
supreme  villainy  of  the  traitor,  Gaspard  de  Cais. 

The  work  was  well  done.  Redbeard  the  pirate  may 
have  had  his  faults,  but  in  the  business  details  of  town- 
sacking  he  was  thorough  and  singularly  expert.  When 
he  beached  his  galleys  in  the  bay,  Eze  was  a  prosperous 
and  busy  town,  living  at  ease  and  confident  in  its 
strength.  When  the  pirate  left  it  it  was  a  black, 
smouldering  ruin,  empty  and  helpless,  stripped  of  all  that 
it  possessed  and  occupied  only  by  the  dead,  by  such 
wounded  as  survived  and  by  the  few  who,  hidden  in 
vaults  and  secret  places,  had  escaped  death  from  suffoca- 

131 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

tion.  There  was  no  need  to  leave  a  guard  in  the  town 
for  there  was  nothing  to  guard.  Eze,  as  a  stronghold 
had  ceased  to  exist. 

After  all  was  over  the  Turks  and  their  ruffianly  allies 
rattled  down  the  hill  to  the  boats,  tired  no  doubt,  blood- 
bespattered  and  blackened  by  smoke,  but  jubilant  and 
disposed  to  bellow  and  sing.  Every  man  was  laden  with 
loot  like  a  pack-horse.  Even  the  wounded  would  grab 
the  shoulder  of  a  friend  with  one  hand  and  a  bundle 
of  booty  with  the  other.  They  chattered  as  they 
stumbled  along,  chuckling  over  the  "  f un  "  they  had  had 
and  announcing  what  they  would  have  done  if  only  they 
had  had  more  time.  Others  would  be  appraising  the 
value  of  their  respective  spoils,  would  draw  strange 
articles  half  out  of  their  pockets  for  inspection,  or  would 
rub  a  sticky  mess  of  blood  and  hair  from  a  vase  to  see 
better  the  fineness  of  its  moulding.  They  reached  the 
sea  without  further  adventure,  boarded  their  galleys  and 
sailed  away  towards  the  East,  a  proud  and  happy  com- 
pany, pleased  with  their  day's  work  and  grateful  to  Allah 
for  his  abounding  mercies. 

It  only  remains  to  tell  what  happened  to  Gaspard 
de  Cais  and  his  friend  from  Gorbio  with  the  unpleasant 
title.  They  were,  of  course,  overjoyed  by  the  result  of 
their  labours  and  must  have  congratulated  one  another 
fervently  with  hearty  slaps  upon  the  shoulder.  They  did 
not  go  down  the  hill  to  join  the  ships.  They  had  either 
been  paid  in  advance  for  their  distinguished  service  or 
had  got  enough  loot  out  of  Eze  to  reward  them  for  their 
efforts.  They  had  done  with  Barbarossa  and  were  dis- 
posed to  do  a  little  now  on  their  own  account. 

Their  action  at  Eze  had  been  attended  with  such 

132 


How  Eze  was  Betrayed 

excellent  results  that  they  proposed  to  try  the  same 
manoeuvre  at  the  gate  of  La  Turbie.  So  Gaspard  and 
the  Lord  of  Gorbio  started  in  high  spirits  for  this  well- 
to-do  little  town.  They  were  to  approach  it  as  friends. 
They  were  to  warn  the  governor  that  the  Turks  were 
coming  and  were  to  offer  their  patriotic  services  as  they 
had  done  at  Eze.  They  had  with  them  a  substantial 
body  of  men — blackguards  all  of  the  first  water — among 
whom  were  no  doubt  some  of  Barbarossa's  crew  who  had 
reached  the  hill  too  late  to  make  a  really  good  bag. 
Indeed  La  Turbie  was  to  be  Eze  over  again. 

The  two  gentle  traitors,  having  hidden  their  men 
near  by,  advanced  to  the  gate  of  the  town  as  the  night 
was  falling.  Unhappily  for  them  the  governor  had  been 
secretly  warned  of  their  coming  and  of  their  methods 
for  helping  their  fellow  countrymen.  The  result  was 
that  they  were  received,  not  with  gratitude,  but  with 
bullets  and  stones. 

They  fled  and,  as  it  was  dark,  made  good  their  escape. 
The  Bastard  of  Gorbio  took  refuge  in  a  church.  There 
he  was  found  and  seized  by  two  brave  priests,  Gianfret 
Mossen  of  Eze  and  Marcellino  Mossen  of  Villefranche. 
Gaspard  de  Cais  hid  in  a  cave.  He  also  was  discovered 
and  arrested.  Very  probably  his  colleague  from  Gorbio 
revealed  his  hiding  place  to  those  who  were  in  pursuit. 
Anyhow  these  two  snivelling  ruffians  were  both  marched 
off  to  the  Castle  at  Nice  where  they  were  tried  for  high 
treason,  convicted  and  sentenced  to  death. ^ 

According  to  one  account  Gaspard  was  drawn  and 
quartered  and  the  Bastard  of  Gorbio  was  hanged;  while 

1  "  Mentone,"  by  Dr.  George  Muller,  London,  1910.     Durante's  "  History 
of  Nice,"  Vol.  2,  p.  313. 

133 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

another  record  states  that  De  Cais  was  broken  on  the 
wheel  and  that  his  friend  committed  suicide  in  his  cell. 
It  matters  little  which  account  is  true.  They  both  came 
to  a  fitting  end  and  passed  out  into  the  darkness  with  the 
curses  of  their  countrymen  ringing  in  their  ears. 

With  the  sacking  and  massacre  of  1543  the  story  of 
Eze  comes  to  an  end.  It  ceased  to  be  a  town  to  reckon 
with,  to  be  cajoled  or  threatened,  to  be  bought  or  sold. 
It  became  a  place  of  no  account  and  has  remained  humble 
and  unhonoured  ever  since.  The  walls  were  not  restored, 
the  fortifications  were  not  remade  and  the  castle  was 
allowed  to  crumble  into  dust.  He  who  was  Lord  of  Eze 
was  lord  over  a  hollow  heap  of  tainted  ruins  and  his  title 
was  as  much  a  shadow  as  was  his  town. 

The  new  Eze,  which  in  course  of  time  came  into 
being,  had  its  foundations  set  upon  the  ruins  of  1543. 
The  castle  appears  to  have  been  more  completely  dis- 
mantled in  1604.  On  February  23rd,  1887,  the  earth- 
quake which  destroyed  Castillon — a  place  singularly  like 
Eze  in  its  position — did  some  damage  to  the  hapless  town 
and  also  to  its  castle.  But  it  would  seem  as  if  the  forces 
of  both  heaven  and  earth  were  conspiring  to  rid  the  world 
of  this  battered  and  ill-omened  house,  for  in  the  terrific 
storm  of  May,  1887,  its  remaining  walls  were  so  split 
by  lightning  that  the  arrogant  old  stronghold  was 
reduced  to  the  mean  condition  in  which  it  is  found 
to-day. 


134 


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.«-»  * 


A   STREET   IN    EZE. 


XVII 

THE  TOWN  THAT  CANNOT  FORGET 

AMID  the  deep  valleys  and  the  titanic  ridges  of  bare 
rock  which  slope  down  to  the  sea  from  the  Alps 
stands  Eze.  It  stands  alone  in  a  scene  of  wild 
disorder.  From  a  huge  gash  in  the  flank  of  the  earth, 
lined  with  trees  as  with  grass,  rises  a  pinnacle  of  rock, 
a  solitary  isolated  bare  pinnacle,  980  feet  high,  with  sides 
sheer  as  a  wall.  It  rises,  clear  and  grey,  out  of  the  abyss 
and  on  its  summit  is  Eze.  It  seems  as  if  some  fearful 
power  had  lifted  the  town  aloft  for  safety;  while,  to 
compare  the  stupendous  with  the  trivial,  it  tops  the  cone 
like  a  tee-ed  ball. 

The  most  impressive  view  of  Eze  is  obtained  from 
the  road  that  leads  from  La  Turbie  to  Cap  d'Ail,  at  about 
the  time  of  the  setting  of  the  sun.  It  is  then  seen  from 
afar  as  a  tiny  town  on  a  crag  among  a  tumbled  mass 
of  mountains  which  lie  deep  in  shade.  It  is  the  only 
sign  of  human  habitation  in  the  waste.  The  sun  shines 
full  upon  it. 

Against  the  dark  background  of  pines  it  appears  as 
a  brilliant  object  in  silver  grey.  Its  houses,  its  church 
and  its  castle  are  as  clean  cut  as  a  many-pointed  piece 
of  plate  lying  upon  folds  of  dark  green  velvet.  No 
visible  road  leads  to  it.  It  looks  unreal,  like  a  town  in 
an  allegory,  such  a  town  as  Christian  saw  in  the  Pilgrim's 

135 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Progress,  such  a  little  city  as  is  graved  upon  the  back- 
ground of  an  old  print  by  Albert  Diirer. 

Eze  is  approached  only  from  the  north,  from  the  side 
towards  the  Corniche  Road.  Viewed  from  this  nearer 
point  it  suggests  a  small  Mont  St.  Michel  rising  out  of 
the  land  instead  of  the  sea.  The  town  seems  a  part  of 
the  rock.  It  is  not  at  once  apparent  where  the  rock 
ends  and  the  dwellings  begin,  for  they  are  all  of  the  same 
tint  and  substance.  It  is  easy,  from  the  highroad,  to 
pass  the  town  by  without  perceiving  it,  for  its  "  pro- 
tective colouring  "  is  so  perfect  and  its  camouflage  so 
apt  that  it  may  be  taken  for  the  notched  summit  of  the 
rock  itself. 

A  closer  inspection  shows  walls  dotted  with  dark 
apertures.  These  are  windows ;  but  they  suggest  the 
black  nest-holes  that  sand-martins  make  on  the  face  of 
a  cliff.  There  are  faint  touches  of  colour  too,  a  heap 
of  rust-tinted  roofs,  a  grey  church  tower,  a  splash  of  red 
to  mark  the  nave,  the  brown  ruin  of  a  castle  like  a  broken 
and  jagged  pot,  a  tiny  ledge  of  green  with  a  line  of  white 
stones  to  mark  the  burying  place. 

A  zigzag  path  mounts  up  to  an  arched  gateway  in 
the  face  of  the  wall.  It  is  the  only  entrance  into  Eze. 
This  portal  will  admit  a  laden  mule  or  a  hand-cart  but 
not  a  carriage;  for  no  "vehicle"  can  find  admittance 
into  this  exclusive  town.  A  curve  of  smoke  alone  shows 
that  it  is  inhabited.  In  the  distance  is  the  blue  Mediter- 
ranean lying  in  the  sun. 

Before  entering  Eze  it  is  well  to  remember  that  it  is 
an  ancient  place  in  the  last  stages  of  decrepitude  and 
decay  and  that  it  has  had  a  terrible  history  and  centuries 
of  sorrow.     It  is  poor,  half  empty  and  partly  ruinous. 

136 


The  Town  that  Cannot  Forget 

Those  who  expect  to  find  a  mediaeval  fortress  will  be 
disappointed  since  its  houses  differ  but  little  from  such 
as  exist  in  many  an  old  neighbouring  town ;  while  those 
who  are  unaware  of  its  past  may  adopt  the  expression  of 
a  tourist  I  met,  leaving  the  rock,  who  informed  his 
friend — as  a  piece  of  considered  criticism — that  Eze  was 
"  a  rotten  hole."  Such  a  man  would,  no  doubt,  describe 
Jerusalem  also  as  '*  a  rotten  hole." 

The  gate  of  Eze — the  Moor's  Gate  as  it  is  still  called 
— is  supported  by  a  double  tower  with  evil-looking  loop- 
holes. It  is  very  old  and  very  w^orn.  Its  machicolations 
are  covered  with  ferns  which  make  its  harsh  front  almost 
tender.  Within  this  entry  is  another  gate  and  a  second 
tower  upon  which  is  a  commonplace  house  reached  by  a 
flight  of  steps.  Here  we  stand  in  an  ancient  feudal 
fortress.  Here  is  the  station  of  the  guard  and  here  has 
taken  place  such  hand-to-hand  fighting  and  such  slaughter 
of  men  as  should  make  the  walls  shudder  to  all  eternity. 
It  was  here  that  the  stand  was  made  by  the  faithful 
garrison  when  the  last  siege  of  Eze  took  place,  the  siege 
led  by  Barbarossa  in  1543.  It  was  at  this  very  gate  that 
the  traitor  Gaspard  de  Cais  parleyed  with  the  governor. 

Within  the  second  gate  is  a  platform  for  the  inner 
guard,  from  the  ramparts  of  which  one  can  look  down 
into  the  chasm  from  which  Eze  arises  and  judge  of  the 
formidable  position  of  the  place. 

The  streets  of  Eze  are  mediaeval  in  arrangement  being 
mere  alleys — each  as  narrow  as  a  trench — between  the 
houses.  They  are  paved  with  cobble  stones  at  the  sides 
and  with  red  bricks  in  the  centre  and  are  lit — such  is  the 
anomaly — by  electric  light.  These  lanes  wander  about 
in  an  uneasy  and  disconsolate  way.     They  sometimes 

137 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

mount  upwards;  they  sometimes  glide  down  as  if  un- 
decided. They  dip  under  houses  through  black,  vaulted 
ways  :  they  lead  to  stone  stairs  that  disappear  round  a 
corner :  they  turn  warily  to  the  right  and  then  to  the 
left,  as  if  someone  followed. 

There  comes  upon  the  visitor  the  sense  of  being  lost, 
of  wandering  in  a  nightmare  town,  of  being  entrapped 
in  a  maze,  of  never  being  able  to  get  out  again.  They 
are  dreadful  streets  for  an  ambush  and  there  is  many  a 
corner  where  an  assassin  in  a  cloak  must  assuredly  have 
waited  for  the  unsuspecting  step.  They  are  full  of  ghosts, 
of  reeling,  bellowing  men  rolling  down  the  steep  arm  in 
arm,  of  half- awakened  soldiers,  buckling  on  their  arms 
and  hurrying  to  the  clamour  at  the  gate,  of  clinging, 
terror-stricken  women  and  of  the  stalwart  prince  with 
his  solemn  guard. 

As  to  the  place  itself  it  is  a  town,  tumbled  and  de- 
ranged, made  up  of  rocks  and  ruins  and  of  melancholy 
houses  of  great  age.  It  is  a  sorrowful  town,  for  Eze 
is  oppressed  by  the  burden  of  a  doleful  past  and  bears 
on  every  side  traces  of  its  woes  and  evidences  of  its  mani- 
fold disasters.  It  is  a  town,  it  would  seem,  that  can 
never  forget.  It  is  a  silent  town  and  desolate.  On  the 
occasion  of  a  certain  visit  the  only  occupant  I  came  upon 
was  a  half-demented  beggar  who  gibbered  in  an  unknown 
tongue,  while  the  only  sound  that  fell  upon  the  ear  was 
that  of  a  crowing  cock.  Many  of  the  houses  are 
shuttered  close,  many  are  roofless  and  not  a  few  are 
without  doors.  It  recalls  at  every  turn  the  words  of 
Dante  of  "the  steep  stairs  and  the  bitter  bread." 

It  is  a  colourless  town  for  there  is  nothing  to  break 
the  ever  abiding  tint  of  oyster-shell  grey.    There  are  two 

138 


EZE:    ON   THE   WAY   TO   THE   CASTLE. 


EZE  :    ALL   THAT   REMAINS    OF   THE   CASTLE, 


The  Town  that  Cannot  Forget 

trees  in  Eze  and,  in  a  back  yard,  a  vine.  With  these 
exceptions  there  is  hardly  a  green  leaf  within  its  confines. 
The  only  thing  that  grows  in  Eze  is  a  monstrous  and 
deformed  cactus,  a  bloated  and  horrible  thing  covered 
with  prickles.  A  botanical  ogre  rather  than  a  plant  it 
seems  to  be  a  survival  from  an  extinct  age  and  to  belong 
to  a  world  over  whose  plains  saurians  and  other  obscene 
reptiles  crawled.  This  senile  and  unlovely  shrub  would 
appear  to  be  appropriate  in  some  way  to  the  poor,  sad 
town  that  cannot  forget. 

There  is  by  the  way  no  water  in  Eze  except  such 
rain-water  as  is  collected  in  tanks  by  the  provident.  To 
obtain  water  it  is  necessary  to  leave  the  town  and  journey 
to  the  bottom  of  the  path.  There,  on  the  road  where 
the  carriage  of  the  tourist  draws  up,  is  the  fountain. 

Eze  too  is  a  place  suggestive  of  craft  and  secret 
doings,  a  town  which  might  have  been  planned  by  a 
man  with  a  guilty  conscience,  for  it  is  a  veritable  rabbit 
warren  in  which  to  burrow  or  to  hide  while  its  shuffling 
lanes,  which  dodge  so  cunningly,  would  seem  to  have 
been  devised  to  favour  the  panting  culprit  with  justice 
at  his  heels. 

Rock  crops  up  everywhere.  Certain  buildings  would 
seem  to  be  compounded  of  the  native  rock  below  and 
of  worked  stones  above.  Caverns  are  cut  out  of  the  cliff 
as  well  as  curious  paths,  although  some  of  these  now  lead 
nowhere. 

There  are  no  two  buildings  alike.  Many  may  be  only 
a  hundred  years  old,  but,  in  any  case,  they  are  incon- 
gruous dwellings  with  windows  at  odd  levels  and  with 
doors  in  unexpected  places.  There  are,  on  the  other 
hand,  buildings  which  show  evidence  of  greater  age  and 

139 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

of  much  distinction.  There  are  towers  which  have  been 
converted  into  common  habitations  and  relics  of  mansions 
of  no  httle  pretence.  On  a  few  of  these  the  corbels  are 
still  to  be  seen  which  once  supported  the  balconies  from 
which  fair  ladies  scattered  flowers  upon  victorious  troops 
tramping  up  to  the  castle.  There  are  many  fine  door- 
ways in  stone.  Some  show  traces  of  the  Moorish  taste, 
others  belong  to  the  thirteenth  century,  while  a  few  dis- 
play the  pointed  arch  of  later  years.  There  are  some 
beautiful  stone  windows  and  many  stoutly  worked  doors 
of  wood  and  other  odd  details  which  recall  a  less  squalid 
past.  The  lounger  in  the  streets  of  Eze  will  meet  with 
crypt-like  and  cavernous  stables  for  goats,  cellars  open  to 
the  sky  owing  to  collapse  of  the  roof,  and  chilly  tunnels 
without  apparent  purpose.  One  or  two  passages  are 
wide  and  vaulted  and  provided  with  a  long  stone  bench 
against  the  wall.  Here,  in  the  shadow,  soldiers  will  have 
sat  to  clean  their  arms  and  old  men  to  gossip. 

The  public  buildings  are,  of  course,  few.  The  Mairie 
is  rather  pretentiously  humble  and  is  the  least  authorita- 
tive building  I  have  ever  seen.  The  post  office  cUngs 
precariously  to  the  side  of  a  steep  lane,  the  Rue  du  Brek, 
and  looks  out  upon  a  wall  of  rock  covered  with  cactus. 
It  seems  incongruous  that  from  this  half-unconscious 
place  it  is  possible  both  to  telegraph  and  telephone. 
There  is  a  dejected  cafe  but  it  is  closed. 

The  church  is  of  little  interest.  It  was  enlarged  and 
restored — that  is  to  say  spoiled — in  1765.  It  contains, 
besides  a  font  of  the  sixteenth  century  and  an  old  cross,  a 
painting  ascribed  to  the  seventeenth  century  in  the  left 
lower  corner  of  which  is  a  picture  of  Eze  as  it  was.  The 
castle  in  the  picture  is  intact,  is  solid,  square  and  arrogant 

140 


The  Town  that  Cannot  Forget 

looking.  It  quite  overwhelms  the  jumbled-up  little 
brown-red  town  at  its  foot.  From  the  top  of  the  tower 
floats  a  red  flag  with  a  white  cross  on  it. 

The  castle  is  on  the  highest  point  of  the  town  and 
is  reached  by  a  path  fashioned  out  of  the  rock.  This  is 
a  path  with  indeed  a  story  to  tell,  if  only  it  could  utter 
it;  if  it  could  but  speak  of  the  footsteps  it  has  listened 
to — the  halting  feet  of  men  led  up  to  be  judged,  the 
trembling  feet  of  men  led  down  to  be  hanged,  the  heavy 
tread  of  the  well-laden  robber,  the  nervous  step  of  the 
spy,  the  rustle  of  the  foot  of  the  damosel.  Of  this  castle 
of  the  Lords  of  Eze  nothing  remains  but  a  wall  and  a 
fragment  of  a  vaulted  chamber.  In  the  castle  yard  is  a 
wretched,  shamefaced  hut  on  which  is  painted  "  Bar  des 
Touristes."  It  is  happily  derelict  and  a  victim  to  the 
general  coma  which  has  spread  over  Eze,  for  it  is  as  out 
of  place  as  a  roulette  table  in  a  nunnery. 

High  up  on  the  side  of  a  house  on  the  south  of  the 
town  is  a  little  old  window.  It  has  a  rounded  arch  of 
weathered  stone  and  is  probably  the  oldest  window  in 
Eze,  for  it  follows  the  mode  that  we  in  England  call 
"Norman."  It  looks  across  the  sea  while  on  the  sill 
is  a  bunch  of  scarlet  geranium  in  a  broken  jar.  I  like  to 
think  that  this  is  the  window  of  Blacas,  the  troubadour, 
that  he  lived  in  this  house  on  the  cliff  and  that  from  this 
casement  he  poured  forth  his  songs  of  love  and  of  gallant 
deeds. 

A  love  song — as  I  have  said — would  seem  strange  in 
Eze  in  its  old  ruffian  days.  It  may  seem  as  strange  even 
now.  But  love  is  eternal  and  so  long  as  men  and  women 
walk  the  alleys  of  this  ancient  town  it  will  hnger  within 
its  walls.    All  the  fiercer  passions  of  Eze  have  died  away 

141 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

— the  lust  for  power,  the  thirst  for  revenge,  the  mad 
fever  for  the  fray — but  love,  it  would  seem,  still  remains 
as,  possibly,  its  only  heritage ;  for  I  came  upon  a  docu- 
ment in  the  Mairie  that  announced  the  coming  marriage 
of  two  young  people  in  Eze.  It  was  not  a  troubadour's 
sonnet,  it  is  true ;  but  it  served  to  show  that  the  old  lanes 
near  by  may  still  be  paths  for  lovers,  that  there  are  still 
steep  places  where  he  may  help  her  down  and  still  a 
parapet  where  the  two  may  lean,  gaze  over  the  sea  and 
dream. 

One  walks  down  the  path  from  the  town  as  one  would 
leave  a  chamber  of  death ;  for  Eze  is  slowly  dying,  dying 
like  a  doddering  old  man — once  the  captain  of  a  host — 
who  is  breathing  his  last  in  a  garret,  with  around  him 
pathetic  relics  of  his  virile  past  and  piteous  evidences  of 
his  present  poverty. 


142 


XVIII 

THE    HARBOUR    OF    MONACO 

THE  history  of  Monaco  from  its  early  days  to  the 
time  when  it  came  upon  peace  is  a  breathless  story 
full  of  incident,  clamour  and  surprise.  It  may  not 
be  unfitly  compared  to  an  account — from  moment  to 
moment — of  the  flights  and  rebuffs  of  a  football  in  a  long 
contested  game.  Now  and  again  the  bewildered  ball  is 
lost  sight  of  in  a  melee  of  panting  men.  At  another 
moment  it  rolls  quietly  into  the  open  to  be  at  once 
pounced  upon  by  two  furious  packs.  At  times  it  is  "  out 
of  bounds  "  and  at  peace,  only  to  be  thrown  again  into  the 
fight  where  it  is  harried  and  battered  and  driven  now  to 
this  quarter  and  now  to  that.  Monaco  was  the  ball  in  the 
fierce  game  between  the  Grimaldi,  on  the  one  side,  and 
the  powers  of  the  Eastern  Mediterranean  on  the  other 
and  in  the  end  the  Grimaldi  won. 

Until  about  the  end  of  the  twelfth  century  Monaco 
was  merely  a  lonely  rock,  almost  inaccessible,  uninhabited 
and  waterless.  Projecting  as  it  does  into  the  sea  it 
afforded  so  good  a  shelter  for  ships  that  the  little  bay  in 
its  shadow  became  famous  as  a  harbour  of  refuge.  Fring- 
ing the  bay  was  a  pebble  beach  where  a  galley  could  be 
hauled  up  or  a  caravel  unloaded. 

Monaco  was  known  as  a  port  in  Roman  days.  Indeed 
it  was  from  this  unpretentious  haven  that  Augustus  Caesar 

143 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

embarked  for  Genoa  on  his  way  to  Rome  when  his  vic- 
tories in  southern  Gaul  had  been  accomplished.  The 
departure  of  the  Emperor  was,  no  doubt,  a  scene  of  much 
pomp,  made  brilliant  by  many-coloured  standards  and 
flashing  spears.  As  the  Emperor  stepped  on  board  his 
ship  the  blare  of  trumpets  and  the  shout  of  the  troops 
drawn  up  on  the  plain  must  have  been  heard  far  beyond 
La  Turbie. 

The  boats  of  Greek  and  Phoenician  traders  have  made 
for  this  harbour  and  have  deposited  their  strange  cargoes 
here  to  the  amazement  of  gaping  natives.  Here  in 
Monaco  Bay  wild  Saracens  have  tumbled  ashore  with  such 
unearthly  shouts  as  to  cause  the  sea  birds  on  the  rock  to 
rise  in  one  fluttering  cloud.  The  beach  too  has  been  lit 
often  enough  by  a  camp  fire  around  which  a  company  of 
pirates  would  be  drinking  and  singing,  while  they  waited 
for  the  return  of  the  marauding  party  that  had  left  at 
dawn. 

Although  the  harbour  was  often  alive  with  men  the 
rock  remained  untenanted.  I  should  imagine  that  the 
first  adventurer  to  set  foot  on  Monaco  would  be  a 
Phoenician  cabin  boy.  He  would  climb  the  cliff  and 
gaining  the  summit  would  explore  it  with  all  the  curiosity 
and  alert  imagination  of  a  boy  landed  on  a  desert 
island. 

It  is  said  that  in  1078  two  pious  men,  who  lived  at 
La  Turbie,  built  on  Monaco  a  tiny  chapel  to  St.  Mary. 
They  built  it  with  their  own  hands  and  employed,  in  the 
making,  stones  from  the  Roman  monument  in  their  native 
town.  If  this  be  true  the  only  building  that  for  a  hun- 
dred years  stood  upon  this  barren  plateau  was  the  child-like 

chapel,  a  speck  of  white  on  the  dark  expanse  of  rock. 

144 


o 
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OS 

< 

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< 
Q 

U 


The  Harbour  of  Monaco 

In  1191  the  Emperor  Henry  VI  granted  Monaco 
to  the  wealthy  and  prosperous  town  of  Genoa.  The 
Emperor's  rights  over  this  fragment  of  territory  might 
be  questioned,  but  there  was  none  to  gainsay  him.  His 
gift  was  coupled  with  the  requirement  that  a  fortress 
should  be  built  on  Monaco  which  should  be  ready  to  serve 
the  Emperor  in  his  wars  with  the  pestilential  people  of 
Marseilles  and  of  other  towns  in  Provence. 

In  the  same  year  an  official  party  of  noble  Genoese 
came  to  Monaco  and  formally  took  possession  of  the 
place  in  the  name  of  their  city.  It  was  a  solemn  occasion ; 
for  those  who  represented  Genoa  made  a  ceremonial  tour 
of  the  rock,  carrying  olive  boughs  in  their  hands.  It  was, 
moreover,  a  trying  occasion  for  the  visit  was  made  in  the 
stifling  month  of  June. 

Some  of  the  noble  commissioners  who  were  stout  and 
advanced  in  years  (as  commissioners  often  are)  must 
have  been  hauled,  dragged  and  pushed  up  the  cliff  side, 
like  so  many  bulky  packages.  Burdened  as  they  were 
,with  official  robes  and  olive  branches,  which  had  to 
be  carried  with  decorum,  they  would  have  found  the 
ceremony  very  exacting.  They  did  more  than  merely 
stumble  about  on  the  top  of  the  rock,  panting  and 
perspiring  and  trying  to  look  official  under  sweltering  con- 
ditions. They  laid  down  the  lines  of  a  fort.  It  was  to 
be  a  square  fort  and  very  large,  with  a  tower  at  each  of 
the  four  angles,  and  it  was  to  be  designed  in  the  Moorish 
style. 

This  fort  or  castle  was  erected  in  the  year  1215  on  the 
site  of  the  present  palace  and  was  provided  with  a  garrison 
by  the  Genoese.  Outside  the  fort  the  rudiments  of  a  town 
appeared — the  first  huts  and  houses  of  Monaco.      That 

K  145 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

town,  therefore,  has  already  passed  the  seven  hundredth 
anniversary  of  its  foundation. 

The  harbour  of  Monaco  of  to-day  is  a  model  harbour 
as  perfect  as  the  art  of  the  engineer  can  make  it.  Two 
stone  piers  guard  the  entrance  and  at  the  end  of  each  is  a 
lighthouse.  There  are  two  wide  quays  where  feluccas  and 
other  rakish-looking  ships  land  barrels  of  wine ;  while  the 
basin  itself  can  accommodate  a  fleet  of  yachts. 

This  haven  which  has  sheltered  the  very  earhest  forms 
of  sea-going  ship  now  shelters — during  the  regatta  season 
— ^the  latest  development  of  the  motor  boat  and  the  racing 
launch.  History  repeats  itself.  There  was  amazement 
at  Monaco  when  the  first  hydroplane  dropped  on  to  the 
water  by  the  harbour's  mouth  :  there  was  amazement  also, 
centuries  ago,  when  the  loungers  about  the  beach  saw 
enter  the  new  ship,  the  astounding  vessel  that  was 
propelled  not  by  paddles  or  oars,  but  by  sails. 

Above  the  pebble  beach  is  a  modest  promenade  and 
a  road — the  main  road  to  Nice.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
highway  are  genial  hotels  where  people  lunch  and  dine 
out  of  doors,  amid  a  profusion  of  white  tablecloths  and 
green  chairs  and  where  the  menu  of  the  day  is  suspended 
from  the  railings. 

At  the  far  end  of  this  Boulevard  de  la  Condamine 

are  an  avenue  of  trees  and  the  old  Etablissement  des 

Bains  de  Mer  which,  even  as  late  as  Hare's  time,  was 

' '  much  frequented  in  summer. ' '     The  Etablissement  is 

now  little  more  than  a  ghost.    The  sound  of  its  gaiety 

has  long  since  been  hushed  into   silence.     There  is  a 

somewhat  frivolous-looking  building  by  the  water's  edge 

which  has  a  rounded  glass  front  and  some  suggestion  that 

it  may  once  have  been  a  palace  of  delight.     It  has  now 

146 


The  Harbour  of  Monaco 

fallen  into  a  state  of  decrepitude  and  shabbiness  and  is 
given  up  to  quite  commonplace  commercial  uses.  It  is 
like  a  dandy  in  extreme  old  age  who,  dressed  in  the  thread- 
bare clothes  which  were  the  fashion  a  generation  ago,  still 
sits  on  a  parade  which  once  was  rustling  with  happy  people 
and  which  is  now  as  sombre  as  a  cemetery  lane. 

Opening  on  to  the  margin  of  the  harbour  is  a  great 
gorge,  a  sudden  breach  in  the  earth  which  serves  to 
separate  the  sober  town  of  Monaco  from  the  frivolous 
town  of  Monte  Carlo.  It  is  a  strange  thing — this  ravine. 
It  is  deep  and  full  of  shadows.  Its  walls,  lit  by  the  sun, 
are  sheer  precipices  of  biscuit-coloured  rock,  tinted  faintly 
with  red  as  with  rust.  From  every  crack  and  cranny  on 
its  towering  sides  something  green  is  bursting ;  while,  here 
and  there,  a  flower,  yellow  or  blue,  clings  to  a  ledge  like 
a  perching  bird. 

From  the  balustrade  of  a  garden  on  its  summit 
there  hang  festoons  of  scarlet  geraniums  and  a  curtain 
of  blue  heliotrope.  Along  the  bottom  of  the  chasm 
runs  a  fussy  stream,  with  a  noise  like  that  of  many 
flutes  and  by  its  side — among  a  jumble  of  rocks,  bushes 
and  brambles — an  inconsequent  path  creeps  up,  out  of 
pure  curiosity,  since  it  leads  nowhere. 

This  ravine,  as  wild  and  savage  as  it  was  a  thousand 
years  ago,  is  a  strange  thing  to  find  in  the  middle  of  a 
town,  for  houses  crowd  about  it  on  either  side  and  press 
so  far  forward  on  its  heights  that  they  appear  likely  to 
topple  into  the  abyss.  A  huge  railway  viaduct  crosses 
its  entrance,  while  its  floor  slopes  to  a  road  where  motors 
and  tramcars  rattle  along,  without  heed  to  this  quiet 
nook  in  the  mountain  side.  It  is  as  incongruous  and 
out  of  place  as  a  green  meadow  with  buttercups  and 

147 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

cows  spread  out  by  the  side  of  the  blatant  traflfic  of 
Fleet  Street. 

There  are  other  anomalies  about  this  Ravin  des 
Gaumates.  It  is  so  reckless-looking  and  so  theatrical  a 
chasm  that  one  is  convinced  that  duels  have  been  fought 
here  and  that  here  conspirators  in  cloaks  have  met,  and 
buccaneers  have  stored  their  surprising  spoils.  At  the 
present  day,  however,  the  sea  rover's  camp  is  occupied 
by  a  laundry  shed,  where  unemotional  women,  with  red 
arms  and  untidy  heads,  are  busy ;  and  where,  in  the  place 
of  brigands'  loot,  sheets  are  spread  upon  the  rocks  to  dry, 
together  with  white  articles  of  underclothing. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  gorge — standing  quite  alone — is 
the  little  chapel  of  St.  Devote.  It  is  a  humble  church, 
modern,  plain  as  a  peasant,  and  of  no  intrinsic  interest. 
It  is  notable  only  in  its  position.  The  building  seems  to 
be  as  surprised  at  the  place  in  which  it  finds  itself  as  is  the 
visitor  who  finds  it  there.  Possibly  no  more  strangely 
situated  house  of  prayer  exists  in  Europe.  Behind  it  is  a 
wild,  disorderly  glen ;  on  each  side  is  a  precipice  and  in 
front  is  a  gigantic  railway  viaduct  of  such  immoderate 
proportions  that  it  towers  above  the  very  steeple  of  the 
church. 

The  building  viewed  from  the  road  where  the  tram- 
cars  run  looks  like  a  small  shrinking  figure  enshrined  in 
a  niche  provided  by  a  vulgar,  overbearing  and  irreverent 
railway  arch. 

St.  Devote  is  the  patron  saint  of  Monaco.  The  cele- 
bration held  every  year  in  her  honour  is  very  picturesque 
and  impressive ;  for  then  a  long  procession  winds  down 
from  Monaco  to  the  little  chapel  to  do  homage  to  her 
memory.     The  legend  of  St.  Devote  takes  many  forms. 

148 


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The  Harbour  of  Monaco 

The  version  here  given  is  that  which  appears  to  be 
generally  accepted  in  Monaco.^ 

In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Diocletian  there  lived  in 
Corsica  a  Christian  maiden  whose  name  was  Devote.  She 
was  bitterly  persecuted  for  her  religion ;  but  found  a  friend 
in  Euticius,  a  senator,  who  concealed  her  in  his  house. 
Her  hiding  place  was  discovered  by  the  Roman  prefect 
who  was  engaged  in  the  hunting  down  of  Christians. 
Euticius  was  killed  by  poison.  Devote  was  dragged  forth 
into  the  street,  was  mutilated  with  the  utmost  brutality 
and  finally  expired  while  undergoing  the  torture  of  the 
'*  chevalet."  She  died  praying  for  the  soul  of  her  friend 
and  protector,  the  noble  Euticius. 

During  the  night  the  body  of  the  martyr  was  carried 
down  secretly  to  the  seashore  by  her  fellow  Christians  and 
placed,  with  solemn  reverence,  on  board  a  ship.  As  the 
day  dawned  the  ship  set  sail  for  the  coast  of  Africa ;  but, 
after  a  while,  a  storm  burst  upon  it  and  drove  it,  helpless 
and  hopeless,  before  a  fierce  wind  towards  the  shores  of 
Gaul. 

The  captain — one  Gratien — felt  that  the  ship  was  lost. 
His  strength  was  spent  and  he  gave  way  to  utter  despair. 
As  he  clung  wearily  to  the  helm,  dazed  and  exhausted, 
a  vision  of  the  dead  maiden  appeared  before  him  as  a  small, 
white  figure  against  a  curtain  of  black  cloud.  She  opened 
her  mouth  to  speak. 

"Up!  Gratien,"  she  said,  "the  tempest  is  passing 
away ;  your  ship  will  sail  safely  into  the  blue.  Watch 
by  me  and  when  you  see  a  dove  fly  forth  from  my 
mouth,  follow  it  with  a  good  heart.  It  will  take  you 
to  a  quiet  haven,  called  in  the  Greek,  Monaco,  and  in 

*  "  Monaco  et  ses  Princes,"  par  Henri  Metivier,  1862. 

149 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

the  Latin,  Singulare.      There  you  will  find  peace  and 
there,  by  the  beach,  bury  my  body." 

Her  words  came  true.  The  wind  ceased ;  the  savage 
waves  dropped  into  a  rippled  calm  and  under  an  azure  sky, 
made  glorious  by  the  sun,  the  battered  boat — bearing  the 
wan  maiden  on  its  deck — sailed,  like  a  radiant  thing,  into 
a  harbour  of  enchantment.  At  the  mouth  of  the  glen, 
where  the  rosemary  grew  and  by  the  side  of  the  laughing 
stream  the  body  of  the  little  maid  was  buried. 


150 


XIX 

THE    ROCK    OF    MONACO 

MONACO  is  a  bold,  assertive  mass  of  rock — long, 
narrow  and  blunt — which  thrusts  itself  out  into 
the  sea,  as  if  to  show  that  it  held  the  ocean 
in  contempt  and  cared  nothing  for  either  winds  or  waves. 
The  sea  has  tried  its  strength  against  it  since  the  world 
began,  but  Monaco  has  ever  remained  bland  and  in- 
different. The  rock  is  cut  off  from  the  mainland  by  a 
gorge  through  which  the  road  to  Nice  slinks  by  as  if 
glad  to  escape.  The  sides  of  Monaco  are  everywhere 
precipitous,  except  towards  the  east.  It  is  from  this  side 
only  that  it  can  be  approached.  Its  fortifications  are 
very  massive  and  consist  of  high,  unbroken  walls  which 
cover  the  cliff  from  base  to  rampart  like  a  cloak.  The 
palace  end  of  the  rock  has,  indeed,  the  appearance  of 
one  gigantic  keep.  The  walls  which  surround  the  palace 
gardens  date  from  1552  to  1560,  while  the  fortifications 
that  surmount  the  Rampe  belong  to  the  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  centuries.  The  flanks  of  Monaco,  when 
neither  sheer  cliff  nor  iron  wall,  are  covered  with  lavish 
green,  for  there  is  not  a  ledge  nor  a  slope  nor  a  cranny 
that  does  not  lodge  some  flower  or  some  shrub. 

Access  to  the  town  is  gained  by  the  Rampe  Major, 
a  broad  and  steep,  paved  path  which  has  been,  in  large 
part,  hewn  out  of  the  side  of  the  rock.     Up  and  down 

151 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

this  path  there  is  an  endless  procession  of  townfolk  and 
harbour  folk,  soldiers  and  priests,  schoolboys  and  girls, 
hurried  officials  and  gaping  visitors.  Below  the  Rampe 
lies  a  carriage  road  up  to  the  town,  traversed  by  a  tram 
line.  This  way,  the  Avenue  de  la  Porte  Neuve  was  con- 
structed in  1828.  Before  that  date  Monaco  could  only 
be  reached  on  foot  or  on  horseback. 

Three  gates  are  met  with  in  ascending  the  Rampe. 
The  first  is  a  ceremonial  gate  rather  than  a  defence  work. 
It  was  built  in  1714  and  affects  a  faintly  classical  style, 
being  fashioned  of  narrow  bricks  and  white  stone.  The 
Rampe  beyond  bends  upon  itself  and,  skirting  a  platform 
surmounted  by  a  sentry  tower  as  yellow  as  old  parch- 
ment, comes  face  to  face  with  the  great  battery  (now 
bricked  up)  which  stands  at  the  foot  of  the  palace  walls. 
It  can  be  seen  how  perfectly  this  gun  emplacement  com- 
manded not  only  the  Rampe  but  also  the  entrance  to 
the  harbour.  On  the  east  side  of  the  battery  is  an 
immense  military  work  in  the  form  of  a  rounded  buttress, 
very  like  the  fold  of  a  hanging  curtain  turned  to  stone. 
This  is  the  oreillon  which  served  to  mask  the  battery 
from  the  land  side. 

Below  the  battery  the  Rampe  turns  again  upon  itself 
and  so  reaches  the  second  gate.  It  is  a  gate  in  white 
stone,  frail  and  ghostlike,  and  inscribed  with  the  date 
1533.  Beyond  it  was  the  drawbridge.  Here  the  Rampe 
bends  sharply  in  its  course  for  the  third  time  and  passes 
through  the  main  gateway  by  a  vaulted  passage  of  great 
solidity.  This  was  the  famous  Mirador  or  post  of  the 
guard. 

The  Rampe  now  ends  in  a  bald  square  with  the 
palace  on  one  side  and  the  town  on  the  other.     On  the 

152 


The  Rock  of  Monaco 

remaining  sides  of  the  square  are  only  a  parapet  and  the 
winds  of  heaven. 

There  are  trees  and  seats  in  the  square,  for  it  is  a 
place  for  idleness  where  old  women  knit  and  young 
women  sew,  where  children  play  and  ancients  ruminate. 
There  are  cannon  in  the  square  pointing  towards  innocent 
Cap  d'Ail.  They  were  presented  to  the  reigning  prince 
of  the  time  by  Louis  XIV.  They  are  quite  innocuous, 
but  serve  to  remind  the  careless  that  the  place  is  a  strong- 
hold and  to  provide  a  plaything  for  small  boys  who — 
with  the  happy  imagination  of  the  young — regard  these 
implements  of  war  as  horses  (or  more  probably  as 
donkeys),  sit  astride  of  them,  strike  them  with  whips 
and  urge  them  to  "  get  up." 

The  palace  covers  the  whole  of  the  northern  extremity 
of  the  rock.  It  is  disappointing  in  that  it  fails  to  realise 
the  emotional  past  of  the  place,  its  dramatic  and  pic- 
turesque history,  the  dire  assaults  and  bloody  frays 
without  its  gates,  the  tragedies  within  its  walls.  It  has 
been  so  mutilated  in  the  past  and  so  improved  and 
modernised  in  the  present  that  it  has  become  inexpres- 
sive. The  strong,  rigid  lines,  the  grim  wrinkles,  the 
determined  frown  have  been  so  smoothed  away  that  the 
face  has  become  vacuous.  The  new  clock  tower  and 
the  rows  of  modern  windows  do  not  recall  the  stern 
halberdier  who  held  the  place  against  all  odds,  nor  the 
bull-necked  men  in  armour  who  yelled  damnation  to 
the  Genoese. 

The  battlements  are  more  suited  for  the  display  of 
flowers  than  for  a  line  of  determined  faces  under  steel 
caps  glaring  along  the  barrels  of  their  muskets.  As  the 
official  residence  of  a  prince  it  is  becoming  and  appro- 

153 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

priate,  but  it  is  not  that  palace  on  a  rock  that  bid  defiance 
to  the  world  for  flaming  centuries.  Monaco  has  a  great 
and  a  glorious  history,  but  it  is  not  written  on  the  walls 
of  the  palace  of  to-day. 

By  the  generosity  of  the  prince  the  palace  is  thrown 
open  to  visitors  on  certain  days  but  it  presents  little  that 
is  of  interest.  It  has  been  so  ruthlessly  treated  in  days 
gone  by  and  subjected  to  such  base  uses  that  there  is 
little  left  to  recall  the  stirring  days  of  the  old  Grimaldi. 
In,  or  about,  1842  the  palace  was  completely  restored, 
so  that  it  assumes  now  all  the  characters  of  a  modern 
structure.  It  is  of  little  concern  to  know  that  the  south 
wing  was  built  in  this  century  or  the  north  wing  in  that, 
since  the  traces  of  age  have  been  nearly  all  removed. 
A  full  account  of  the  lines  of  the  palace,  both  old  and 
new,  is  given  in  M.  Urbain  Bosio's  excellent  treatise  "  Le 
Vieux  Monaco."  ^  Between  the  gate  that  leads  from  the 
Rampe  and  the  gate  of  the  palace  itself  is  a  curved  wall, 
with  machicolations  of  an  unusual  type.  This  wall  (now 
much  restored)  is  said  to  date  from  the  fourteenth  century 
and  behind  it  was  the  hall  for  the  main  guard. 

The  palace  is  entered  by  a  fine  gateway  bearing  the 
Grimaldi  arms  and  erected  in  1672.  It  leads  into  a  court 
which  is  rather  bare  and  cold.  Here  is  to  be  found  a 
double  staircase  of  marble  which  is  a  little  out  of  keep- 
ing with  its  surroundings.  There  are  frescoes  in  the 
arcades  which  line  the  court,  but  they  have  been  recently 
and  rather  crudely  restored.  The  little  chapel  at  the 
north  end  of  this  Cour  d^Honneur  is  simple  and  dignified 
and  in  a  modest  way  beautiful.  It  was  built  in  1656  and 
restored  in  1884.     The  long  range  of  reception  rooms, 

1  Published  in  Nice,  1907. 


The  Rock  of  Monaco 

with  their  lavish  gilt  decorations  and  their  florid  frescoes, 
fulfil  the  average  conception  of  "  royal  apartments." 
There  are  a  few  pictures  of  interest  but  none  of  especial 
worth.  There  is  an  old  renaissance  chimney-piece  of 
carved  stone  which  is,  however,  memorable. 

The  garden  is  very  fascinating  with  its  deep  shade, 
its  solemn  paths,  its  palm  trees  and  its  little  orange  grove. 
In  one  comer  of  the  garden  are  the  ruins  of  an  old 
defence  work  which  surmounts  the  northern  wall  and 
which  may  claim  to  be  part  of  the  palace  in  its  fighting 
days. 

Behind  the  chapel  is  an  ancient  tower  with  battle- 
ments of  a  forgotten  type  upon  its  summit.  It  is  square 
and  plain  and  covered  with  ivy  upon  one  side.  It  has 
no  windows,  but  presents  a  few  square  openings,  about 
18  inches  in  width,  which  are  the  sowpiraux  which  alone 
admitted  light  and  air  into  the  interior.  This  tower  is 
the  only  substantial  part  of  the  original  palace  that  is 
left  and  is  said  to  date  from  1215.  According  to  M. 
Bosio^  it  has  two  stories  above  the  ground  floor.  On 
each  story  is  a  single  room  lit  and  ventilated  solely  by 
means  of  the  small,  square  vents  {sowpiraux)  already 
mentioned.  He  states  that  these  two  rooms  were  used 
as  prisons  and  that  on  the  walls  are  to  be  seen  names 
cut  in  both  Italian  and  in  Spanish.  The  Italian  would 
pertain  to  the  time  of  the  wars  of  the  Guelphs  and 
Ghibellines  and  the  Spanish  to  the  period  of  the  Spanish 
occupation  (1549-1641). 

On  the  other  side  of  the  square  and  directly  facing 
the  palace  is  a  large  official  building  known,  at  one  time, 
as  the  House  of  the  Governor.     It  has  seen  many  changes. 

1  "  Le  Vieux  Monaco." 

155 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

It  was  the  headquarters  of  the  Revolutionists  during  the 
Terror.  On  the  restoration  of  the  Grinialdi  it  became 
the  seat  of  the  Civil  Tribunal  and  of  the  schools.  It 
later  was  occupied  as  a  large  hotel  and  cafe  and  finally  by 
the  Gambling  Rooms  pending  the  completion  of  a  casino 
at  Monte  Carlo  in  1860.^  On  the  west  side  of  the  square 
is  the  Promenade  Ste.  Barbe,  so  called  after  the  chapel 
of  Sainte  Barbe  which  stood  here.  The  chapel  has  been 
converted  into  a  dwelling  house,  but  its  door  still  stands 
and  over  the  portal  are  still  the  initials  S.B.  By  no  little 
ingenuity  this  entry  has  been  converted  into  a  shop  for 
the  sale  of  picture  postcards. 

The  town  is  pleasant,  clean  and  orderly.  It  has  the 
aspect  of  a  place  of  much  content.  Its  few  streets  are 
parallel  and  follow  the  line  of  the  rock.  They  are  narrow, 
so  narrow,  indeed,  that  the  notice  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Rue  des  Briques  to  the  effect  that  no  motors  are  admitted 
would  seem  to  be  an  official  jest  based  upon  the  more 
ancient  estimate  of  the  camel  and  the  eye  of  the  needle. 
There  are  some  picturesque  houses  and  fragments  of  old 
buildings  in  the  town.  In  the  Rue  du  Milieu  are  certain 
beautifully  carved  doorways  in  stone  of  the  seventeenth 
century  or  earlier. 

The  winter  visitor  is  apt  to  pity  the  Monegasques  for 
their  narrow  streets  which  keep  out  the  life-giving  sun. 
When  the  mistral  blows  he  has  less  contempt  for  the 
sheltering  lane  and  as  the  end  of  May  is  reached — when 
the  sun  is  shunned  as  if  it  were  mustard  gas — he  bolts 
across  the  square,  like  a  man  under  fire,  and  diving  into 
the  cool,  dim  ways  of  Monaco  thanks  his  creator  for  the 
blessing  of  shade. 

*  The  present  Casino  at  Monte  Carlo  was  built  in  1878. 

156 


MONACO  :    THE   SENTRY   TOWER    ON   THE   RAMPE. 


'•^* 


MONACO  :   THE   DRAWBRIDGE   GATE,   1533. 


The  Rock  of  Monaco 

The  old  church  of  St.  Nicolas  has  been  replaced  by 
a  new  cathedral  which  was  completed  in  1897  and  professes 
to  be  in  the  Romanesque-Byzantine  style.  This  cathedral 
is,  no  doubt,  a  worthy  example  of  modern  art,  but  the 
building  is  so  immense,  so  glaring  and  so  ornate  that  it  is 
quite  out  of  touch  with  the  humble  little  dun-coloured 
town.  It  is  as  inappropriate  as  would  be  the  Albert 
Memorial  if  found  by  the  duck-pond  of  a  village 
green. 

The  old  church  was  a  loss  to  Monaco  much  to  be 
deplored.  It  dated  from  the  twelfth  century,  was  in  the 
form  of  a  Latin  cross  and  contained  a  number  of  curious 
chapels.  It  was  composed  largely  of  stone  from  the 
monument  at  La  Turbie.  M.  Bosio  describes  it  fully  in 
his  work  and  adds  that  its  disappearance  is  very 
regrettable  from  the  point  of  view  of  art. 

Near  the  cathedral  are  two  admirable  museums,  little 
as  they  may  be  expected  on  this  war-battered  rock.  One 
is  devoted  to  anthropology  and  the  other  to  oceanography. 
They  were  instituted  by  the  present  prince  whose 
attainments  as  a  man  of  science  are  known  the  world 
over. 

Immediately  opposite  to  the  cathedral  is  the  old  Hotel 
de  Ville  or  Maison  Commune.  It  is  a  simple  building 
of  two  stories,  the  door  of  which  on  the  upper  floor  is 
approached  by  a  double  staircase  ending  in  a  modest 
balcony.  It  was  constructed  in  1660  and  is,  in  spite  of 
its  simplicity,  the  most  charming  house  in  Monaco.  The 
lower  floor — M.  Bosio  states — was  used  for  the  storing  of 
corn  and  meal  for  the  people  in  times  of  siege,  while  the 
upper  and  more  dignified  rooms  were  the  offices  of  the 
mayors,  echevins  or  consuls. 

157 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Opposite  the  side  door  of  the  cathedral  is  the  Rue  des 
Carmes.  It  was  so  called  because  it  contained  a  figure  of 
the  Madonna  of  Mount  Carmel.  "  On  the  eve  of  the  fete 
of  Notre  Dame  du  Mont-Carmel  the  old  Monegasques 
surrounded  this  hallowed  figure  with  flowers  and  lighted 
candles  and  sang  hymns  before  it."^  The  place  of  this 
figure  is  indicated  by  a  painting  of  the  Madonna  of  Mount 
Carmel  on  a  wall  of  one  of  the  houses. 

The  Rue  des  Briques  is  worth  following  to  the  end. 
It  leads  to  the  Mairie — a  modern  building  of  no  interest — 
but  just  beyond  the  Mairie,  on  the  right  side  of  the  road, 
is  a  humble-looking  old  house  with  a  wide,  round-arched 
doorway  and  square  windows  fitted  with  grilles.  This 
was  the  Mint  where  money  was  struck  when  the  Princi- 
pality of  Monaco  had  its  own  coinage.  The  use  of  the 
Mint  appears  to  have  been  abandoned  about  1840, 
although  the  currency  of  Monaco  was  not  abolished 
until  some  years  after. 

A  little  farther  down  the  street,  and  still  on  the  right 
hand  side  of  the  way,  is  a  long  wall.  This  shuts  in  the 
famous  Giardinetto  or  Little  Garden.  It  belonged  to  a 
house  built  by  Charlotte  de  Grammont,  wife  of  Prince 
Louis  I,  who  left  the  Court  of  France  and  retired  to 
Monaco  in  order  to  be  near  her  daughter,  who  had  taken 
the  veil  in  the  convent  adjoining.  This  convent — the 
Convent  of  the  Visitation — is  a  large,  yellow,  barrack-like 
building  which  occupies  one  side  of  the  Place  de  la  Visita- 
tion, having  on  the  other  side  the  Hotel  du  Gouvernment. 
The  convent  was  founded  by  Charlotte  de  Grammont  in 
the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century  and  here  her  heart 
is  buried.     On  the  chapel — which  is  singularly  plain — 

^  Bosio.     "Le  Vieux  Monaco." 
158 


The  Rock  of  Monaco 

is  an  inscription  to  note  that  it  was  built  in  1663  and 
restored  in  1870. 

The  south-eastern  extremity  of  the  rock  is  occupied 
by  the  gardens  of  St.  Martin,  which  were  designed  by 
Prince  Honore  V  in  1816  to  give  employment  to  the 
people  during  a  year  of  dearth.  These  gardens  are  most 
enchanting.  They  occupy  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and  even 
climb  some  little  way  down  the  side  of  the  cliff  by  hesi- 
tating paths.  They  are  represented  by  a  maze  of  shady 
walks  with,  here  and  there,  a  terrace  overhanging  the  sea 
or  a  sheltered  look-out  on  a  point  of  rock.  It  is  a  wild 
garden  partly  tamed,  a  wilderness  where  every  path  is 
made  smooth.  Its  vegetation  is  partly  Italian,  partly 
African.  Here  are  pine  trees,  olives  and  palms,  with 
prickly  pear,  aloes  and  agave,  pepper  trees  and  mimosa, 
eucalyptus  and  the  mastic  bush,  jasmine  and  myrtle, 
hedges  of  choisya,  banks  of  rosemary,  beds  of  violets  and 
cascades  of  scarlet  geranium.  Below  at  the  foot  of  the 
glowing  cliff  is  the  cool  purple  of  the  sea  with  a  fringe 
of  white  foam  to  show  where  the  rock  and  the  waters 
meet. 

Just  beyond  the  Oceanographic  Museum  is  a  wide, 
paved  platform  on  the  brink  of  the  cliff  with  parapet  and 
sentry  house.  Beneath  it  is  the  Great  Casemate  built 
about  1709  to  provide  shelter  for  the  people  during  bom- 
bardment and  to  accommodate  a  cistern  for  the  storing  of 
water  when  the  outer  world  was  cut  off.  This  great 
underground  "  dug-out  "  is  now  used  as  a  prison. 

At  the  end  of  the  garden  is  the  rugged  old  fort  built 
by  Prince  Antoine  over  200  years  ago.  It  is  looking 
towards  the  casino  of  Monte  Carlo,  just  as  a  toothless,  old 
brigand  might  look  at  a  dancing  girl.     It  is  a  romantic 

159 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

spot  with  its  winding  stairs,  its  great  gun  embrasures,  its 
mysterious  doorways  and  its  deserted  sentry  walk.  It  no 
longer  bristles  with  armed  men ;  it  no  longer  thunders, 
with  flashes  of  flame,  across  the  sea ;  it  no  longer  awakens 
an  echo  that  shakes  the  astonished  hills ;  for  it  is  now  a 
kind  of  "  Celia's  Arbour,"  a  place  of  whispers  where 
lovers  meet  and  ruffle  the  silence  with  nothing  more 
unquiet  than  a  sigh. 


1 60 


XX 

A   FATEFUL   CHRISTMAS    EVE 

NOT  many  years  after  the  building  of  the  citadel  or 
fort  in  1215  (page  145)  Monaco  became  involved 
in  the  war  between  the  Guelphs  and  the  Ghibel- 
lines.  The  Guelphs  were  represented  by  the  Grimaldi, 
the  Ghibellines  by  the  Spinola.  Each  party  twice  be- 
sieged the  other,  when  entrenched  within  the  citadel,  and 
each  was  twice  supplanted  by  its  opponents.  Indeed  such 
were  the  changes  that  a  ship  returning  to  Monaco  after  a 
voyage  of  no  more  than  a  month  or  so  did  well  to  inquire, 
before  entering  the  harbour,  whether  the  rock  was  in  the 
hands  of  the  Grimaldi  or  the  Spinola. 

In  1306  the  Ghibellines,  or  Genoese,  held  Monaco  and 
felt  sure  of  their  holding,  for  they  had  long  remained 
undisturbed.  They  were  represented  by  the  head  of  the 
Spinola  family  who  had  taken  up  his  residence  in  the 
citadel  or,  as  it  would  by  this  time  be  termed,  the  palace. 

On  Christmas  Eve  1306  a  small  party  of  men  left  Nice 

after  sundown  and  made  their  way  to  Monaco  by  way  of 

certain  paths  across  the  hills.     It  was  not  a  conspicuous 

party,  being  formed  only  of  a  few  armed  men  and  a 

monk.      They  would  be  taken  for  a  body  of  retainers 

moving  from  one  castle  to  another.     It  might  have  been 

observed  that  they  treated  the  monk  with  great  respect 

and  deference.    He  himself  was  not  notable,  except  that 
L  i6i 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

he  was  an  agile  and  powerful  man  and  that  he  seemed 
rather  more  hilarious  than  is  becoming  to  a  priest. 

When  they  reached  Monaco  the  night  was  at  its 
darkest,  the  harbour  deserted  and  the  rock  merely  a  tower- 
ing black  mass.  They  then  did  a  curious  thing.  Without 
a  word  they  parted.  The  armed  men  crept  along  the  foot 
of  the  cliff  and  were  at  once  lost  to  sight.  The  monk,  left 
alone,  sat  down  by  the  water's  edge  and  listened.  He 
was  listening  for  the  sound  of  a  church  bell.  It  would 
be  the  bell  of  St.  Nicolas  in  Monaco  rung  to  announce 
the  midnight  Mass.  As  he  waited  he  drew  something 
from  the  folds  of  his  gown.  It  was  not  a  rosary  nor  a 
crucifix.  It  was  a  dagger  with  a  long  blade  which  he 
fingered  affectionately. 

When  the  first  sound  of  the  bell  rang  over  the  sea  he 
rose  and  commenced  to  ascend  the  steep  path  which  led 
to  the  gate  of  the  town.  He  walked  with  his  head  bowed 
and  with  leisurely  steps.  His  habit  was  that  of  the  Priory 
of  St.  Devote,  the  little  church  which  looked  across  the 
harbour.  Any  who  went  by  passed  him  unnoticed.  If 
he  stumbled  on  the  path  in  the  dark  he  swore  which  is 
unusual  among  men  of  his  cloth.  Before  the  gate  was 
the  sentinel,  who  recognising  the  garb  of  the  priest,  merely 
inclined  his  head  with  a  gesture  of  respect.  The  monk 
responded  by  commending  him  to  God.  Before  long  this 
guardian  of  the  gate  had  need  of  that  commendation. 
The  monk,  apparently  deep  in  thought,  passed  through 
the  courtyard  occupied  by  the  guard.  They  were  sitting 
around  a  small  fire  on  the  ground  and  were  playing  at 
minchiate  or  tresetti  or  some  such  game  of  cards. 

He  walked  on  unchallenged  and  entered  the  great 

square  before  the  palace.     He  drew  a  sigh  of  rehef.     It 

162 


U 
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< 

X 

H 

O 
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< 

z 

o 


A  Fateful  Christmas  Eve 

might  have  implied  reHef  at  having  reached  the  top  of  a 
steep  hill.  It  might  have  implied  more.  He  turned  to 
the  left  and,  walking  with  the  solemn  step,  appropriate  to 
a  priest  going  to  Mass,  entered  one  of  the  narrow  streets 
of  the  town  that  led  to  the  church.  There  were  lights  in 
some  upper  windows  and  people  were  leaving  their  houses 
to  attend  the  evening  service.  When  he  came  upon  the 
last  cross  street  he  turned  down  it.  It  led  not  to  the 
church  but  to  the  ramparts. 

On  reaching  the  ramparts  his  manner  suddenly 
changed ;  he  became  intensely  alert.  He  leaned  eagerly 
over  the  wall  and  whistled.  A  response  came  out  of  the 
black  shadows  into  which  he  gazed.  His  friends  from 
Nice  had  kept  their  tryst.  How  these  armed  men  got 
over  the  wall  into  the  town  is  not  known.  Very  possibly 
the  monk  had  a  rope  concealed  under  his  habit. 

In  a  few  moments  all  his  followers  were  around  him. 
The  bell  of  the  church  had  ceased  to  toll  and  the  celebra- 
tion of  the  Mass  had  begun.  There  was  now  no  need  for 
further  disguise.  The  party  rushed  back  through  the  very 
street  that  the  monk  had  traversed.  They  may  have 
passed  a  belated  worshipper  on  his  way  to  St.  Nicolas 
who,  as  they  tore  by,  would  fall  back  against  the  wall. 
They  pressed  on,  headed  by  the  monk,  who  had  now  a 
sword  in  one  hand  and  a  dagger  in  the  other. 

On  gaining  the  square  a  few  of  the  party  turned  to 
the  main  gate.  The  soldiers  of  the  guard  were  still  busy 
at  their  game  of  cards  and  were  butchered  as  they  sat. 
The  assault  was  so  sudden  that  the  man  with  the  winning 
"hand"  fell  back  dead,  with  the  cards  still  in  his  grip, 
spread  out  from  his  thumb  fan-like,  but  so  spattered  with 
blood  that  they  looked  all  red.     The  sentinel,  who  had 

163 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

been  commended  to  Gk)d,  was  stabbed  in  the  back  as  he 
stood  and  so  passed  out  of  the  world  .without  knowing  how 
he  had  come  to  leave  it. 

The  monk  and  the  rest  of  the  company  made  for  the 
palace.  The  men  at  the  open  door,  who  were  drowsily 
awaiting  the  return  of  the  Spinola  from  St.  Nicolas,  were 
cut  down  as  if  by  a  blast  of  deadly  wind  and  so  the  citadel 
was  won.  Those  within  had  no  time  to  arm.  They  were 
killed  or  made  prisoners  according  to  the  attitude  they 
assumed. 

In  the  great  hall  lolled  the  Master  of  the  House  who, 
dozing  in  a  chair,  was  thunderstruck  to  see  a  body  of 
violent  men,  headed  by  a  monk,  dash  in  through  the 
door.  Jumping  up  he  could  only  call  out  to  the  advancing 
priest,  *'In  the  name  of  Heaven  who  are  you?"  and 
tremble  as  the  answer  came,  *'I  am  Francis  Grimaldi." 

The  Spinola  who  were  in  the  church  at  the  time  of  the 
attack  managed  to  reach  the  harbour  and  escaped  in  their 
galleys  to  Genoa. ^  It  was  thus  that  the  great  family  of 
Grimaldi  obtained  a  final  hold  upon  Monaco  and  it  was 
by  reason  of  what  happened  on  this  Christmas  Eve  that 
the  figure  of  a  monk  with  a  sword  appears  upon  their 
coat  of  arms. 

From  this  period,  with  the  exception  of  an  interval 
of  eleven  years,  1327-1338,2  Monaco  has  remained  in  the 
hands  of  the  Grimaldi  who  can  thus  claim  to  have  been 
masters  of  the  stout  little  territory  for  no  less  than  six 
hundred  years. 

Francis  Grimaldi — often  spoken  of  as  Francis  the 
Crafty — was  killed  in  a  fight  in  1309. 

»  "  Monaco  et  ses  Princes,"  by  H.  Mdtivier,  1862,  Vol.  1. 
»  Between  these  dates  the  Spinola  were  again  in  possession  of  the  rock. 

164 


XXI 

CHARLES    THE    SEAMAN 

IT  is  needless,  and  indeed  impossible  within  the  limits 
of  this  book,  to  follow  the  history  of  the  long  line 
of  adventurous  men  who  were  in  turn  Lords  of 
Monaco.  They  lived  through  years  of  trouble  and  un- 
rest with  varying  fortune.  They  fought  and  schemed 
with  varying  success.  They  mounted  high  and  circled 
far.  They  came  near  to  be  draggled  in  the  dust  and 
yet  through  all  vicissitudes,  through  storm  and  calm,  they 
kept  the  red  and  white  flag  of  the  Grimaldi  afloat  over 
the  tower  of  Monaco. 

One  of  the  most  brilliant  holders  of  the  seigneurie 
of  Monaco  was  Carlo  I,  otherwise  known  as  Charles  the 
Seaman.  He  was  a  restless  and  violent  man,  as  wild  as 
a  hawk,  with  an  ambition  as  boundless  as  his  daring  and 
with  an  ability  of  mind  which  raised  him  to  the  position 
of  a  great  power  on  the  seas. 

He  began  by  choosing  a  wife  from  the  family  of  his 
direst  enemy;  for  he  married  Lucinetta  Spinola.  The 
marriage,  so  far  as  the  records  tell,  was  fortunate  and 
Lucinetta  bore  him  six  children. 

The  great  purpose  of  his  life  was  to  make  Monaco  a 
naval  power  and  in  this  aim  he  succeeded,  for  by  his 
indomitable  energy  he  raised  the  Monegasque  fleet  to  a 
position  of  high  rank  not  only  in  the  Mediterranean  but 

165 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

in  the  remoter  waters  of  Europe.  Although  the  harbour 
at  his  command  was  small  he  was  able,  on  one  occasion, 
to  collect  a  fleet  of  no  fewer  than  thirty  galleys  and  a 
force  of  ten  thousand  men-at-arms. 

He  devoted  his  fleet,  in  the  first  instance,  to  advance 
the  prestige  of  Monaco,  to  consolidate  his  territory  and 
to  expand  his  commerce.  When  these  needs  were  satis- 
fied he  went  further  afield.  He  was  a  free  lance  and  was 
prepared  to  offer  his  services  to  any  prince  who  was  in 
need  of  help  and  was  prepared  to  pay  liberally  for  his 
assistance.  Indeed  when  any  war,  large  or  small,  was 
impending  it  was  desirable,  as  a  preliminary,  to  secure 
the  strong  arm  of  Charles  the  Seaman.  He  was  in- 
different as  to  the  merits  of  the  quarrel  or  as  to  the  side 
on  which  he  served  so  long  as  he  saw  his  way  to  make 
a  good  thing  out  of  it. 

He  began  his  fighting  career  in  a  quite  modest 
fashion  in  the  year  1831.  The  Catalans,  being  unfortun- 
ately not  aware  of  the  character  of  the  Lord  of  Monaco, 
had  the  audacity  to  make  a  blundering  attack  upon  that 
citadel.  Carlo  fell  upon  them,  scattered  them,  drove 
them  back  panic-stricken  and,  dashing  after  them,  sacked 
their  town  of  Barcelona  as  a  warning  not  to  meddle  with 
the  Grimaldi  again. 

Having  a  fine  fleet  and  a  period  of  leisure  he  now 
turned  his  forces  against  his  old  enemies,  the  Genoese, 
harried  them  without  mercy  and  blockaded  their  city. 
He  was  doing  well  and  likely  to  do  better  when  war  broke 
out  between  France  and  England,  between  Philip  of 
Valois  on  one  side  and  Edward  III  on  the  other.  Philip 
at  once  sent  to  Monaco  to  beg  the  help — on  terms — of 
Carlo  against  the  English.    The  invitation  was  too  attrac- 

i66 


Charles  the  Seaman 

tive  to  be  ignored ;  so  the  fleet  of  Monaco  turned  west- 
ward and  set  sail  for  the  remote  and  almost  unknown 
island  of  England.  It  was  a  venture  of  no  little  peril. 
The  Gulf  of  Lyons  and  the  Bay  of  Biscay  are  not  to  the 
liking  of  seamen  even  at  the  present  day,  and  to  cross 
these  wastes  of  water  in  mere  galleys  was  a  venture  that 
needed  a  stout  heart — such  a  heart  as  that  of  Carlo 
Grimaldi. 

The  Monegasque  fleet,  having  joined  with  that  of 
France,  came  up  with  the  EngUsh  off  the  Channel 
Islands.  A  sea  battle  followed  in  which  Carlo  and  the 
French,  aided  very  opportunely  by  a  storm,  defeated  the 
naval  forces  of  England.  This  was  in  the  year  1343. 
Charles  the  Seaman  gained  from  this  expedition  not  only 
glory  but  profit ;  for  he  received  from  Philip  a  very  sub- 
stantial recompense  in  money  as  well  as  certain  rights 
to  trade  in  the  Mediterranean  which  brought  consider- 
able additions  to  his  treasury. 

Having  disposed  of  the  English  navy  Grimaldi's 
services  were  no  longer  needed  by  the  French;  so  he 
returned  to  Monaco  to  resume  his  interrupted  fight  with 
the  Genoese.  Fighting  with  the  Genoese  had  become 
a  habit  with  the  Lords  of  Monaco,  an  abiding  passion, 
a  kind  of  disorder  which  would  be  described  as  chronic. 
Carlo  was  getting  on  extremely  well,  was  doing  great 
damage  to  Genoa  and  inflicting  still  more  gratifying 
injury  upon  her  fleet,  when  once  more  the  King  of 
France  called  for  his  aid  and  this  time  gave  the  order — 
as  a  contractor  would  express  it — for  an  expeditionary 
force. 

This  force  was  to  be  employed  in  France  in  fighting 
the  English.     It  appears  to  have  been  a  joint  force  of 

167 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

Genoese  and  Monegasque  under  the  combined  command 
of  Carlo  Grimaldi  and  a  Doria  of  Genoa. 

The  force  arrived  on  the  scene  of  action  too  late. 
Edward  III  of  England  had  already  ravaged  the  coast 
of  France  and  had  advanced  to  within  a  few  miles  of 
Paris.  The  battle  of  Crecy  followed.  The  Genoese — 
as  every  schoolboy  will  remember — wearied  by  forced 
marches,  were  sent  to  the  front  by  the  French  king. 
There  had  been  a  storm  of  rain  and,  having  no  cases  for 
their  bows,  the  catgut  that  strung  them  was  rendered 
soft  and  useless.  The  men — thus  hampered — were  un- 
able to  withstand  the  English  archers  and  began  to  re- 
treat. The  king,  seeing  them  waver,  ordered  his  own 
troops  to  set  upon  them.  "  Or  tot,''  cried  he,  "  tuez  toute 
cette  ribandaille,  car  ils  nous  empechant  la  voie  sans 
raison."  A  general  rout  followed  and  the  victory  of  the 
English  was  complete.  The  battle  was  fought  on  August 
26th,  1346.  Both  Doria  and  Grimaldi  were  wounded, 
but  whether  by  the  English  archers  or  the  French  pike- 
men,  is  unknown.  In  spite  of  his  wounds  Carlo  hastened 
to  Calais  which  was  hard  pressed  by  the  English.  His 
efforts,  however,  availed  nothing  and  Calais  fell.  Carlo 
Grimaldi,  having  completed  his  engagement,  returned  to 
Monaco. 

Neither  he  nor  his  navy  could  be  long  idle.  There 
was  always  lucrative  work  for  them  somewhere,  together 
with  substantial  pay  and  good  prospects  of  loot.  Thus 
we  find  him  fighting  Greeks  and  Venetians,  going  to  the 
assistance  of  Don  Jayme  11  of  Majorca  in  his  war  with 
Pierre  IV  of  Aragon,  and,  later  on,  fighting  on  the  side 
of  this  same  Pierre  of  Aragon  against  the  Moors  of 
Gibraltar.      This   last-named    expedition    was   in    1349. 

i68 


.J 


M 
Q 

J 
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<o 

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o 
o 

E 
H 

O 

u 

z 

o 


Charles  the  Seaman 

Before  that  date,  viz.  in  1346,  he  had  made  peace  with 
Genoa  and,  as  a  compliment,  the  command  of  the  Genoese 
fleet  was  given  to  his  brother. 

Wars  were  very  profitable  and  Carlo  was  becoming  a 
rich  man.  He  had  extended  the  frontiers  of  Monaco; 
for  he  had  acquired  by  purchase  the  seigneuries  of  Men- 
tone,  Roquebrune,  Castillon  and  Eze.  He  had  rich  fiefs 
in  France  as  well  as  the  towns  of  Cagnes  and  Villeneuve 
in  the  vicinity  of  Nice  and  was,  moreover,  engaged  in  a 
lucrative  commerce  along  the  coast. 

All  was  well,  but  unfortunately  the  old  chronic  malady 
— the  passion  to  fight  Genoa — broke  out  again  as  chronic 
maladies  are  apt  to  do.  This  time  the  veteran  seaman 
was  not  so  fortunate  and  indeed  fortune  would  seem  to 
have  deserted  him.  The  Duke  of  Genoa  fell  upon 
Monaco ;  surrounded  it ;  blockaded  it  and  compelled  the 
tough  old  fighter,  who  had  never  owned  defeat,  to  haul 
down  his  flag  and  surrender.  There  was  never  a  more 
pathetic  moment  in  the  history  of  Monaco  than  when  the 
gallant  seaman  walked  down  the  path  from  his  palace  to 
the  sea  a  beaten  man  and,  most  bitter  of  all,  beaten  by 
Genoa.     This  was  in  1356. 

Carlo  Grimaldi  retired  upon  Mentone  to  collect  forces 
with  which  to  fight  the  Genoese  once  more  and  so  gain 
possession  of  his  beloved  rock.  For  him  the  time  never 
came.  The  ranks  of  armed  men  that  he  dreamed  about 
night  and  day  were  never  mustered  and  in  1363  the  great 
and  heroic  seaman  died. 


169 


XXII 

THE   LUCIEN    MURDER 

IN  1457  a  little  girl,  aged  twelve,  became,  on  the  death 
of  her  father,  the  ruling  princess  of  Monaco.  Her 
name  was  Claudine.  The  position  of  this  little  maid 
was  embarrassing  and  indeed  pitiable.  She  would  like  to 
have  romped  in  the  playroom  or  have  spent  the  days  in 
the  garden  with  her  pets  and  her  girl  friends.  Instead 
of  that  she  had  to  sit  for  hours  on  a  throne  with  her  hair 
done  up  in  an  unwonted  and  uncomfortable  manner,  with 
robes  about  her  which  were  much  too  large  and  with  her 
feet  danghng  a  long  way  off  the  floor.  Here  she  had  to 
receive  the  obeisance  of  venerable  court  oflBcials  and  of 
burly  fighting  men  who  bowed  gravely  as  they  approached 
and  then  knelt  before  those  ridiculous  small  feet  of  hers 
of  which  she  was  so  conscious. 

It  was  very  amusing  to  play  the  queen  in  the  garden 
with  her  friends  and  with  a  tree  trunk  for  a  throne  and  a 
wisp  of  paper  for  a  crown;  but  this  solemn  ceremony, 
carried  on  without  a  smile,  was  merely  a  thing  of  dread. 
She  had  always  been  "  Claudine  "  or  "  Claudinetta  "  to 
her  companions  when  they  played  with  her,  chased  her 
about  and  pinched  her;  but  now  they  bent  their  heads 
when  she  stepped  on  the  lawn  and  called  her  "  Madam  " 
and  "  Your  Highness.'*  She  had  to  learn  that  her  youth 
had  vanished  at  the  age  of  twelve  and  one  can  imagine 

170 


The  Lucien  Murder 

her,  when  a  function  was  over,  throwing  off  her  robes 
and  rushing  to  the  arms  of  her  old  nurse  to  cry  until  her 
tears  were  spent. 

She  had  a  worse  trouble  to  face  than  to  be  dressed  up 
like  a  puppet  and  stared  at.  She  was  rich.  She  had 
what  she  was  told  were  "  prospects,"  with  the  result 
that  she  became  infested  by  a  crowd  of  people  of  whom 
she  had  never  dreamed — a  crowd  of  would-be  lovers  and 
suitors  for  her  hand.  They  pestered  her  with  languish- 
ing letters  and  with  sickly  sonnets.  They  were  all 
anxious  to  die  for  her.  They  sent  her  presents.  They 
remembered  her  birthday.  They  followed  her  to  Mass. 
They  played  lutes  under  her  window  and  awoke  her  in 
the  morning  by  singing  unseasonable  ballads.  She  had 
to  listen  to  insidious  lords  and  ladies  who  gurgled  in 
her  ear  the  praises  of  their  sons,  their  grandsons  and 
their  nephews.  Before  she  was  fourteen  she  must  have 
been  as  sick  of  the  name  "husband"  as  a  tired  man 
would  be  of  the  yelping  of  a  locked-out  dog  or  the  whine 
of  a  persistent  hawker. 

The  more  impetuous  of  her  suitors  seem  to  have 
proceeded  to  actual  excess  in  their  efforts ;  for  the 
faithful  historian  states  that  "  they  endeavoured  to 
secure  her  person  by  ruse  or  force. "^  It  may  be  trying 
to  be  adored  by  one  irrepressible  young  man,  but  to 
receive  declarations  of  love  and  offers  of  marriage  from 
a  hustling  mob  must  have  been  alarming.  A  love-sick 
man,  as  an  individual,  may  be  simply  depressing,  but  a 
crowd  of  love-sick  men  reproduces  the  nauseous  features 
of  an  out-patient  room  at  a  hospital. 

In  the  end   Claudine  married  her  cousin,   Lambert 

» '♦  Monaco  et  ses  Princes,"  by  H.  M6tivier,  1862. 

171 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Grimaldi  the  son  of  Nicolas,  the  Lord  of  Antibes,  on 
the  excellent  grounds  that  both  her  father  and  her  grand- 
father had  named  this  gentleman  as  a  suitable  husband 
in  their  last  wills  and  testaments. 

Claudine  and  Lambert  had  children  and  among  them 
two  sons,  Jean  and  Lucien.  Jean  succeeded  his  mother 
as  the  ruling  prince,  but  was  unfortunately  murdered 
by  his  younger  brother  Lucien.  This  was  a  regrettable 
episode  in  Lucien 's  life ;  but  he  did  something  to  repair 
it.  In  1506  Monaco  was  once  more  besieged  by  the 
Genoese.  It  was  a  great  and  desperate  assault,  but 
Lucien  defended  the  rock  with  such  consummate  skill 
that  the  attack  failed.  The  siege  was  memorable  since 
it  represented  the  last  occasion  on  which  this  much  tried 
citadel  was  beleaguered  and  it  exalted  Lucien  to  the 
position  of  a  great  military  leader. 

Now  Lucien  had  a  nephew,  Bartolomeo  Doria  by 
name,  to  whom  he  was  much  attached  and  to  whom  he 
had  shown  great  kindness.  On  a  certain  day  in  August 
1524  Bartolomeo  was  about  to  proceed  from  Ventimiglia 
to  Lyons.  Lucien,  wishing  to  do  his  nephew  honour, 
placed  a  fine  ship  at  his  disposal  and  begged  him  to  stay 
at  Monaco  on  his  way  westwards.  Doria  accepted  both 
the  ship  and  the  invitation  with  effusion  for  it  occurred 
to  him  that  it  afforded  an  excellent  opportunity  to 
murder  his  genial  old  uncle. 

In  due  course  Bartolomeo  landed  at  Monaco  where 
he  was  given  a  hearty  welcome  and  was  received  by  the 
prince  with  demonstrations  of  affection.  He  was  attended 
by  an  exceptionally  large  suite  and  this  the  indulgent 
uncle  ascribed  to  the  natural  swagger  of  youth.  On 
reaching   the   palace    Lucien   begged   young   Doria   to 

172 


z 

a 

Q 

< 

O 
b 

.J 
U 

X 


o 
u 

< 
z 
o 


The  Lucien  Murder 

accompany  him  to  Mass.  He  declined;  so  the  prince 
went  alone.  During  Lucien's  absence  at  the  church  it 
was  noticed  that  Bartolomeo  was  engaged  for  long  in  a 
whispered  conference  with  those  who  had  accompanied 
him. 

As  soon  as  the  heat  of  the  day  was  over  (it  may  be 
about  six  o'clock)  the  party  met  at  supper.  Bartolomeo, 
who  sat  next  to  his  uncle,  was  very  silent  during  the 
meal  and — as  it  was  remembered  afterwards — was  much 
preoccupied  and  unnaturally  pale.  Lucien  tried  to 
rally  him ;  made  jokes ;  dug  him  in  the  ribs ;  chaffed 
him  and  suggested  that  he  was  in  love  or  had  lost 
heavily  at  cards.  Bartolomeo  could  only  reply 
with  a  faint  mechanical  smile  and  a  hollow  effort  to 
be  jovial. 

A  moment  came  when  a  dignified  chamberlain  stood 
up  and,  with  his  goblet  raised,  proposed  *'  Health  and 
long  life  to  the  Prince."  As  Bartolomeo  responded  to 
this  toast  it  was  observed  that  he  became  as  livid  as  a 
dead  man  and  that  the  cup  chattered  against  his  teeth. 
It  was  with  a  throttled  gasp  that  he  muttered  the  words 
"  Long  life  to  the  Prince."  Lucien  acknowledged  this 
kindly  expression  with  a  grateful  smile  and  pressed  his 
own  warm  hand  on  that  of  his  nephew. 

Now  hanging  about  his  father's  chair  was  Lucien's 
little  boy.  Bartolomeo  had  often  played  with  the  child 
and  was  curiously  attached  to  him.  Lucien,  knowing 
the  affection  with  which  he  regarded  the  lad,  took  him 
up  and  placed  him  in  Doria's  arms.  The  boy  was 
delighted  and  began  to  prattle  of  the  doings  of  his  Httle 
world  and  spoke,  with  breathless  rapture,  of  to-morrow 
when  his  father  was  going  to  take  him,  as  a  great  treat, 

173 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

to  the  shady  beach  at  Cap  d'Ail  where  they  would  build 
a  hut,  light  a  fire  and  cook  their  own  meal. 

This  talk  was  more  than  Bartolomeo  could  endure; 
for  he  knew  that  to-morrow  the  boy  would  be  fatherless 
and  sobbing  his  heart  out  in  a  darkened  room.  Bar- 
tolomeo, as  he  held  the  chattering  little  fellow  in  his 
arms,  shook  to  such  an  extent  that  even  the  child's  talk 
was  stilled  and  he  began — moved  by  some  subtle  instinct 
— to  be  frightened.  His  father  lifted  him  from  Doria's 
lap  and  told  him  to  run  away.  Lucien  could  not  under- 
stand his  nephew  this  evening  and  ascribed  his  tremor 
to  a  touch  of  ague. 

After  supper  Lucien  invited  Bartolomeo  to  come 
into  his  private  room.  As  they  walked  along  the 
corridor,  with  Lucien's  hand  upon  his  nephew's  shoulder, 
Doria — looking  through  the  window — saw  four  galleys 
approaching.  He  pointed  them  out  to  his  uncle  as  the 
convoy  of  his  cousin  Andrea  and  begged  the  prince  to 
convey  an  important  message  to  him  and  to  do  his  cousin 
the  honour  of  sending  an  escort  with  it.  Lucien  was 
only  too  pleased  to  gratify  his  guest  and  at  once  ordered 
some  fourteen  men  of  his  own  bodyguard  to  welcome  the 
on-coming  fleet.  In  this  way  Bartolomeo  rid  the  palace 
of  fourteen  formidable  armed  men,  of  nearly  all,  in  fact, 
who  were  on  duty  that  night.  Andrea — it  may  be  ex- 
plained— was  aware  of  the  purpose  of  Bartolomeo 's  visit 
to  Monaco  and  was  coming  to  his  assistance. 

Lucien  and  his  nephew  passed  along  the  corridor, 
entered  the  prince's  room  and  closed  the  door  after  them. 
Outside  the  door  was  stationed,  according  to  the  routine 
of  the  palace,  a  page,  a  faithful  negro,  who  was  devoted 
to  his  master.     Hardly  had  the  door  closed  than  the 

174 


The  Lucien  Murder 

page  heard  the  prince  scream  out  "  Ah!  you  traitor!  " 
He  burst  into  the  room  to  find  his  master  felled  to  the 
ground  and  Bartolomeo  bending  over  him,  stabbing  him 
with  a  dagger. 

He  rushed  back  along  the  corridor  to  give  the  alarm ; 
but  the  bodyguard  were  already  on  their  way  to  the 
harbour  and  when  the  page,  with  the  few  men  he  could 
muster,  returned  to  the  prince's  room  they  found  it 
already  filled  with  Doria's  friends  armed  to  the  teeth, 
and  the  prince  dead. 

The  alarm  soon  spread  to  the  town.  From  every 
door  in  the  narrow  streets  men  poured  forth  and,  armed 
with  whatever  weapon  they  could  pick  up,  rushed  in  a 
furious  body  to  the  palace.  Bartolomeo — who  had  hoped 
to  seize  the  citadel — soon  saw  that  his  case  was  hopeless 
and  his  party  outnumbered.  He  and  his  friends  escaped 
by  a  back  stair,  made  their  way  to  the  harbour  and 
gained  Andrea's  galleys  which  were  now  nearing  the 
beach.  In  this  way  Bartolomeo  fled  safely  to  France, 
leaving  the  little  town  buzzing  with  disorder  like  a 
ravaged  beehive  and,  in  a  silent  room,  a  sobbing  boy 
lying  prostrate  on  the  body  of  his  dead  father. 


175 


XXIII 

HOW   THE    SPANIARDS   WERE   GOT   RID   OF 

FOR  a  number  of  years  Monaco,  with  that  part  of 
the  Riviera  which  is  adjacent  thereto,  was  under 
the  protection  of  Spain.  It  is  said  that  the  pro- 
tectorate was  sought  and  contrived  by  Hercules,  Prince 
of  Monaco.  How  this  mastery  of  a  foreign  power  arose 
is  not  so  much  a  matter  of  interest  as  how  it  was  got 
rid  of. 

Hercules,  by  the  way,  came  himself  to  a  tragic  end. 
He  was,  in  the  language  of  the  history  books,  an 
''unprincipled  Hbertine."  He  outraged  the  wives  and 
daughters  of  certain  of  his  subjects.  The  indignant 
husbands  and  fathers  had  no  means  of  redress.  There 
was  no  authority  to  appeal  to  above  the  prince;  so  they 
took  the  matter  into  their  own  good  hands.  One  night 
a  grim  and  determined  body  of  men  turned  out  into  the 
streets,  forced  their  way  into  the  palace  and  into  the 
prince's  bedchamber.  They  dragged  him  from  his  bed, 
cut  his  throat  and  threw  his  dead  body  over  the  cliff 
into  the  sea.  This  prompt  and  primitive  act  of  justice 
took  place  in  the  year  1604. 

Honorius  the  First,  who  succeeded  to  the  prince  just 
named,  found  the  protectorate  an  insufferable  burden 
and  resented  the  presence  of  a  Spanish  garrison  within 
the  walls  of  Monaco.     He  endured  the  insolence,  the 

176 


How  the  Spaniards  were  Got  Rid  of 

exactions  and  the  oppression  of  the  foreigners  for  about 
forty  years  when  it  came  upon  him  that  he  could  tolerate 
the  sight  of  them  no  longer.  The  Spaniards  were 
lounging  in  his  courtyard  and  his  barrack  square  and 
strutting  about  his  battlements  to  protect  him  from  the 
supposed  insidious  enemy,  France.  He  did  not  wish  to 
be  protected  from  France.  He  desired  protection  from 
the  swaggering  upstarts  from  Spain  who  patronised  him, 
patted  him  metaphorically  on  the  back  and  told  him  that 
he  need  not  be  afraid  for  they  would  look  after  him. 
Honorius  preferred  the  possible  hostility  of  France  to 
the  ever-present  and  offensive  guardianship  of  the 
Spaniards. 

He  was  tired  of  being  looked  after;  so  one  day  he 
got  into  touch  with  his  enemy,  the  French,  and  had  a 
genial,  open-hearted  talk  with  the  general.  The  general 
frankly  confessed  that  this  Spanish  garrison  on  the 
frontier  was  a  menace  and  a  hateful  thing  that  grew, 
year  by  year,  more  disgustful.  No  doubt  in  the  course 
of  the  interview  they  "said  things"  about  these 
poltroons,  these  blusterers,  these  sneering  braggarts  and 
vied  with  one  another  merrily  in  the  invention  of  crush- 
ing and  ingenious  terms  of  abuse.  As  a  result  of  a 
pleasant  chat  they  entered  into  a  secret  compact,  the 
conditions  of  which  were  simple.  Honorius  was  prepared 
to  place  Monaco  under  the  French  flag  if  only  the 
French  would  rid  him  of  this  abominable  old  man  of 
the  sea,  the  Spaniard. 

The  day  was  near  at  hand  when  the  Spanish  garrison 

would  be  removed  to  Nice  in  order  to  be  relieved  by 

a   fresh    contingent.      A    very   few    of   the    obnoxious 

foreigners  would  then  be  left  in  Monaco.    This  was  the 
M  177 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

day,  therefore,  arranged  for  the  happy  release.     It  was 
a  certain  day  in  November  1641. 

Before  the  time  arrived  Honorius  introduced  into 
Monaco  some  hundred  trusty  men  from  Mentone.  They 
came  to  the  rock  under  all  sorts  of  pretexts.  Some 
were  to  visit  friends  who  did  not  exist;  others  were 
coming  to  repair  fortifications  that  needed  no  amendment, 
and  a  strangely  large  body  were  called  upon  to  help  in 
the  palace  kitchen  which  was  already  overstaffed.  Any- 
how they  came ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  it  was  arranged 
that  two  hundred  armed  Mentonais  were  to  find  hiding- 
places  outside  the  walls,  on  the  cliff  side  or  in  the  huts 
about  the  Condamine  and  the  harbours ;  while  a  few,  no 
doubt,  would  seek  shelter  among  the  olive  groves  where 
Monte  Carlo  and  its  casino  now  stand. 

The  main  body  of  the  Spanish  garrison  marched  off 
to  Nice,  singing  and  shouting,  for  they  were  on  the  way 
to  their  homes  in  Spain.  The  disposal  of  the  few  who 
remained  was  left  to  the  ingenuity  of  a  priest,  a  man 
of  resource,  one  Pacchiero  by  name.  He  organised  a 
special  night  service  in  the  church  "  to  pray  for  the 
defeat  of  the  French  should  they  attack  Monaco."  The 
Spaniards  could  do  no  less  than  join  in  this  pious  exercise. 
The  little  church  was  soon  filled  with  men,  kneeling  row 
upon  row  and  pouring  forth  petitions  for  the  destruction 
of  the  ill-intentioned  French. 

At  11  P.M.  while  the  service  was  in  progress,  the 
glare  of  a  bonfire,  on  the  point  of  the  rock,  shot  suddenly 
over  the  sea.  It  was  a  good  bonfire  for  the  light  of  its 
flames  could  be  seen  from  Cap  d'Ail  to  Cap  Martin.  It 
was  a  signal  to  the  French  that  "  The  Day  "  had  come 
and  not  only  the  day  but  the  hour.    The  French  captain, 

178 


o 

-J 
as 
< 
U 

a 
o 


Q 
Z 

o 
u 
<: 
z 

o 

z 

Hi 

OQ 

W 
O 
OS 

o 


How  the  Spaniards  were  Got  Rid  of 

the  Comte  d'Alais,  with  a  fine  body  of  men  under  his 
command  was  looking  out  eagerly  for  this  flash  of  fire 
and  the  moment  he  saw  it  he  set  off  with  his  company 
to  Monaco. 

At  the  same  time  the  Monegasques  and  the  five- 
score absent-minded  visitors  from  Mentone  fell  upon  the 
Spaniards,  threw  open  the  gate  and  admitted  the  two 
hundred  who  had  been  shivering  outside  in  the  cold. 
After  a  sharp  fight  the  scanty  garrison  was  overcome 
and  were  lodged  in  a  dungeon  where  they  could  continue 
their  prayers  for  the  ruin  of  the  French  at  greater 
leisure. 

Next  morning  the  French  troops  marched  into 
Monaco  with  banners  flying  and  bands  playing.  They 
were  welcomed  by  the  people  with  songs  and  cheers  and 
noisy  enthusiasm.  The  houses  were  hung  with  garlands 
of  flowers  and  all  the  women  were  decked  out  in  their 
best.  The  cheering  must  have  penetrated  to  the 
dungeons  and  have  been  very  bitter  to  the  Spaniards 
who  had  spent  so  much  time  in  praying  for  the  over- 
throw of  these  very  men  whose  swinging  tramp  they 
could  hear  overhead. 

The  prince  behaved  with  much  graciousness  and 
generosity.  He  caused  the  French  troops  and  the 
Spaniards  to  be  paraded  in  the  square  and,  when 
the  crowd  had  been  hushed  to  silence,  he  delivered  an 
appropriate  and,  no  doubt,  impressive  address.  At  its 
conclusion  he  took  from  his  neck  the  order  of  the 
Golden  Fleece  and  handed  it  to  the  Spanish  captain  with 
the  request  that  he  would  return  it  to  His  Majesty  of 
Spain  with  the  late  wearer's  compliments  and  thanks. 

He  then,  amid  uproarious  cheering,  donned  the  white 

179 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

scarf  which  betokened  his  allegiance  to  the  King  of 
France.  The  Spaniards  he  treated  with  a  fine  liberality, 
inspired  by  the  grateful  knowledge  that  he  would  never 
see  them  again.  He  allowed  the  ofl&cers  to  retain  their 
swords.  He  gave  to  all  the  soldiers  double  pay  and  a 
generous  supply  of  food  for  their  journey.  Furthermore 
he  presented  to  the  captain  a  letter  in  which — with 
some  excess  of  fancy — he  dwelt  upon  the  bravery  which 
both  officers  and  men  had  shown  under  the  recent 
disturbing  conditions. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  Spaniards  left  Monaco  and  that 
the  people  of  the  rock  saw  the  last  of  them.  As  they 
marched  down  the  cliff  to  the  high  road  they  were  not 
only  content  but  even  disposed  to  be  thankful.  Some, 
no  doubt,  were  a  little  sad  because  they  were  leaving 
their  sweethearts  behind  in  Monaco ;  while  all — without 
question — were  burning  to  wring  the  neck  of  the  priest 
who  had  organised  that  special  night  service  at  which 
they  had  prayed  for  the  undoing  of  their  now  jubilant 
enemies. 

Louis  XIII  of  France  was  much  pleased  with  the 
part  the  Prince  of  Monaco  had  played  in  ridding  him 
of  a  Spanish  outpost  so  near  to  his  own  territories. 
**  He  arranged  by  the  treaty  of  Peronne  for  the 
independence  of  Monaco  and  the  protection  of  a  French 
garrison,  together  with  sufficient  lands  in  France  to 
compensate  for  the  loss  of  any  Italian  revenues  con- 
fiscated by  Spain.  Grimaldi  was  rewarded  by  lands  in 
France  which  were  called  his  Duchy  of  Valentinois."  ^ 

It  was  in  this  manner  that  the  princes  of  Monaco 
became  possessed  of  the  title  of  Dukes  of  Valentinois. 

1  "  Old  Provence,"  by  T.  A.  Cook,  Vol.  ii.,  p.  158,  1914. 

l8o 


XXIV 

A   MATTER   OF   ETIQUETTE 

A  MONG  the  minor  happenings  in  the  ways  of  the 
/  %  world  a  disproportionate  interest  always  attaches 
to  the  breaking  off  of  a  marriage  engagement. 
The  event  excites  surprise  and  florid  speculation,  together 
with  a  tender  and  unreasoning  sense  of  regret.  It  is, 
to  the  unknowing,  as  the  sudden  slamming  of  a  door 
that  seemed  to  open  into  paradise.  The  rupture  may 
be  due  to  many  things,  to  ill-health  or  ill- temper,  to 
discoveries,  to  a  change  of  heart,  to  mean  matters 
affecting  money  or  to  the  lure  of  a  brighter  flame.  It 
must  be  rare  that  the  happiness  of  a  devoted  couple,  on 
the  very  eve  of  their  wedding,  is  dangerously  threatened 
by  a  mere  matter  of  etiquette;  yet  this  happened  at 
Monaco — or  more  precisely  in  Monaco  harbour — about 
the  year  1751. 

The  reigning  prince,  Honorius  III,  became  enamoured 
of  the  beautiful  Maria  Caterina  Brignole.  This  lady 
had  not  only  a  pretty  face,  but  also  a  great  charm  of 
character  and  of  mind.  The  two  became  engaged.  The 
intricate  arrangements  that  attend  a  princely  espousal 
were  completed  and  the  date  of  the  wedding  was  agreed 
upon. 

The  day  at  last  came  when  the  bride  would  arrive  at 
Monaco.     It  was  a  day  of  feverish  excitement.     Every 

i8i 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

flag  that  the  principaUty  could  produce  was  fluttering 
in  the  breeze;  the  country  around  was  stripped  of  its 
flowers  to  deck  the  town;  while  every  wardrobe  was 
ransacked  to  furnish  the  very  gayest  head-dress,  tunic 
and  gown  that  the  owner  could  boast  of.  All  the 
inhabitants  of  Monaco — men,  women  and  children — 
poured  down  to  the  harbour,  leaving  the  streets  deserted 
and  the  houses  empty  of  all  but  the  crippled  or  the  sick. 
The  quay  was  crammed ;  the  beach  was  lined  to  the 
water's  edge,  while  even  on  the  crest  of  La  Turbie  was 
a  cluster  of  folk,  who,  if  they  could  not  come  down  to 
Monaco,  were  at  least  determined  to  see  what  little  they 
could. 

By  the  harbour-side  was  the  prince  in  his  most 
princely  dress,  surrounded  by  the  gentlemen  of  the  Court, 
bedecked  with  every  medal,  ribbon  and  star  that  they 
possessed.  Behind  the  Court  officials  was  the  bodyguard, 
ranged  in  a  line  and  as  stiff  as  a  row  of  gaudily  painted 
tin  soldiers.  On  one  side  of  the  princely  party  were  the 
musicians  and  on  the  other  that  bevy  of  maidens  dressed 
in  white  which  should  always  attend  the  coming  of  a 
bride. 

The  long  expected  ship  swept  into  the  harbour ;  came 
alongside  the  quay  in  breathless  silence  and  was  made 
fast  to  the  landing  place.  The  bodyguard  stiffened  to 
even  more  metallic  rigidity ;  the  crowd  stood  with  open 
mouths  ready  to  cheer,  while  the  musicians  placed  the 
trumpets  to  their  lips  prepared  to  burst  forth  with  the 
National  Hymn  they  had  practised  upon  for  so  many 
weeks. 

Nothing  appropriate  to  the  occasion  happened.  The 
silence   remained   unbroken.     The   prince   had    sent   an 

182 


A  Matter  of  Etiquette 

ambassador  to  conduct  the  bride  to  the  shores  of  Monaco. 
This  over-dressed  and  over-heated  official  tumbled  ashore 
in  some  disorder  and  hurried  to  the  presence  of  the 
motionless  prince.  He  had  evidently  something  to  say 
and  indeed  something  startling  to  say;  for  his  speech 
led  to  a  conversation  that  became  more  and  more  excited 
until  it  rose  to  a  veritable  babel  of  voices.  He  hurried 
back  to  the  ship  and  there  became  involved  in  an  equally 
flurried  conversation  in  which  the  Marchesa  di  Brignole, 
the  mother  of  the  bride,  took  a  prominent  and  decided 
part.  He  returned  to  the  quay  and  set  ablaze  another 
heated  conflagration  of  words.  Before  it  was  quenched 
he  leapt  back  to  the  vessel  and  there  induced,  among 
the  expectant  company,  a  second  outburst  of  excited 
speech,  attended  by  much  gesticulation.  Whatever  he 
was  doing  he  was  at  least  a  man  who  encouraged 
conversation. 

Still  nothing  effective  took  place.  The  prince  had 
not  moved;  the  bride  had  not  appeared;  the  band  was 
still  silent;  the  bodyguard  still  stiff  and  the  crowd  still 
agape.  Something  evidently  had  gone  wrong  and  indeed 
very  wrong. 

The  position — as  the  multitude  came  ultimately  to 
learn — was  this.  The  questioji  had  arisen  as  to  which 
of  the  august  two,  the  bride  or  the  bridegroom,  should 
make  the  first  step  towards  a  meeting.  In  the  case  of 
ordinary  human  beings  the  man  would,  no  doubt,  have 
at  once  rushed  to  the  ship  to  embrace  the  lady;  while 
the  lady  would  have  hurried  to  the  quay  side  to  find 
herself  in  the  arms  of  her  lover.  Possibly  as  a  result 
the  two  might  have  fallen  into  the  water,  but,  at  least, 
the  meeting  would  have  had  a  proper  emotional  interest. 

183 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

No\v  when  princes  and  the  brides  of  princes  are 
concerned  things  are  quite  different.  They  cannot 
tumble  about  Hke  common  folk.  The  prince  was  advised 
that  he  must  not  advance  to  the  ship,  because  such  a 
step  would  be  unbecoming  and  indeed  humiUating.  He 
was  the  Prince  of  Monaco  with  his  feet  upon  his  own 
territory  and  whoever  came  must  advance  to  him  and 
not  he  to  them.  It  was  unthinkable  that  he  should 
welcome  a  visitor  to  his  domain  by  jumping  over  the 
sides  of  ships.  If  he  moved,  his  honour,  his  dignity,  his 
princely  position  would  be  at  stake. 

On  the  other  hand  the  mother  of  the  lady,  a  little 
red  in  the  face,  insisted  that  it  was  the  duty  of  the 
bridegroom  to  meet  the  bride.  It  was  against  decorum 
for  the  bride  to  spring  ashore  as  if  she  .were  a  long 
lost  child.  To  show  anxiety  to  meet  her  future 
husband  was  unmaidenly,  indeUcate  and  indeed  almost 
indecent. 

The  prince — as  advised — could  not  give  in  and  the 
marchesa,  with  head  erect  and  folded  arms  and  a 
disposition  to  stamp  on  the  deck,  declined  to  modify  her 
views  as  a  mother  and  a  woman.  So  determined  was 
this  virtuous  peeress  upon  the  point  that  sooner  than  let 
her  innocent  daughter  take  one  immodest  step  towards 
the  shore  she  would  break  off  the  engagement  and 
regard  the  wedding  contract  as  annulled.  Indeed  in  her 
indignation  she  went  further.  She  ordered  the  captain 
of  the  ship  to  cast  off  and  set  sail  for  the  port  whence 
she  had  come. 

Now  was  the  opportunity  for  the  mediator,  for  the 
common-sense  man  with  no  nonsense  about  him,  for  the 
person  with  a  fertile  brain.     Some  genius   among  the 

184 


THE   CHAPEL   OF    ST.   DEVOTE. 


A  Matter  of  Etiquette 

disputing  parties  suggested  a  compromise  and  a  plank. 
The  scheme  was  as  follows.  A  broad  plank  was  to  be 
brought  and  sloped  between  the  vessel  and  the  quay. 
The  prince  was  to  take  a  certain  number  of  steps  along 
the  plank  towards  the  ship  and,  at  the  same  moment, 
the  bride  would  take  precisely  the  same  number  of  steps 
towards  the  shore.  By  this  means  the  two  would  meet, 
face  to  face,  exactly  in  the  centre  of  the  plank;  the 
bridegroom  would  then  turn  on  his  heels  and  he  and 
the  lady  would  proceed  to  the  shore  side  by  side. 

This  ingenious  manoeuvre  was  agreed  upon.  Its 
execution  was  watched  with  gasping  interest,  for  the 
happiness  of  two  fond  hearts  depended  upon  its  correct 
execution.  If  the  prince  took  one  more  step  than  the 
lady  he  would  be  humiliated  for  ever;  whereas  if  the 
bride  ventured  an  extra  pace  she  could  never  hide  her 
blushes  while  she  lived.  The  crowd  was  thrilled;  the 
courtiers  trembling  and  the  two  chief  performers  as 
nervous  as  if  they  had  to  walk  on  a  tight-rope. 

It  ended  well.  The  man  and  the  maid  met  in  the 
exact  centre  of  the  plank  and,  keeping  step,  marched  to 
the  shore  with  the  precision  of  two  German  soldiers  on 
parade.  So  admirable  was  the  performance  that  the 
heavy  military  boot  of  the  prince  and  the  little  satin  shoe 
of  the  lady  touched  the  soil  of  Monaco  at  the  same 
moment. 

The  crowd  shrieked  till  they  were  hoarse;  the 
courtiers  bowed  to  the  earth;  the  guard  became  so  stiff 
that  they  nearly  fell  backwards,  while  the  band  let  loose 
that  National  Hymn  which  had  been  pent  up  so  long. 

And  so — as  the  story  books  say — they  married  and 

hved  happily  ever  after. 

185 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

It  only  remains  to  add  one  other  particular.  In  the 
fullness  of  time  the  prince  died  and  the  princess  married 
again.  She  married  Louis  Joseph,  Prince  of  Conde. 
He  had  been  devoted  to  her  for  thirty  years  and,  in 
spite  of  her  age,  still  regarded  her  as  the  most  beautiful 
creature  in  the  world. 

They  were  married  in  London  and  under  circumstances 
which  rendered  the  use  of  a  plank  unnecessary. 


i86 


XXV 

THE   MONTE   CARLO   OF   THE   NOVELIST 

MONTE  CARLO,  they  told  me,  was  a  place  of 
great  wickedness,  where  every  path — though 
lined  with  flowers — led  headlong  to  the  Pit. 
From  the  many  romances  which  deal  with  Monte  Carlo  I 
gathered  that  it  was  the  seat  of  an  intensive  culture  in 
iniquity,  that  it  specialised  in  subtle  forms  of  evil  doing 
and  that  in  its  pleasances  vice  blossomed  as  the  rose. 
Among  what  writers  always  term  "the  motley  crowd" 
in  this  fictitious  borough  were  men  of  quite  exceptional 
depravity,  women  more  accomplished  than  Delilah  and 
crafty  foreigners  of  the  yellow-skinned  and  black-haired 
variety  who  are  far  too  foreign  to  be  real.  Suicide,  I 
understood,  prevailed  as  an  endemic  disease. 

I  arrived  at  the  principality  on  Christmas  Eve  and, 
owing  to  some  train  derangement,  at  an  hour  a  little 
short  of  midnight.  I  approached  this  place — which  those 
who  are  careless  of  terms  describe  as  "  a  Hell  *' — with 
anxious  interest.  When  the  train  came  to  a  standstill 
I  found  myself  in  a  quiet,  ill-lit  station,  precisely  like 
fifty  other  stations  on  the  line.  I  resented  this.  I 
resented  even  the  fact  that  the  magic  name  "  Monte 
Carlo "  was  portrayed  in  quite  homely  and  decorous 
letters.  I  expected  to  see  a  number  of  peculiarly  evil 
men  alight  from  the  train ;  but  they  were  not  in  evidence. 

187 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

They  probably  "  slipped  away  in  the  gloom,"  as  they 
do  in  the  books.  The  only  passengers  I  noticed  were  a 
very  weary  old  lady  and  her  maid.  The  lady  was  respect- 
able almost  to  extinction  and  was  absorbed  by  concern 
for  her  many  hand  bags  and  her  obtuse  dog. 

I  had  been  led  to  think  that  at  midnight  the  grosser 
revels  of  Monte  Carlo  would  be  at  their  height;  so  in 
the  drive  to  the  hotel  I  expected  to  be  shocked  and 
grieved.  I  found  myself,  on  the  contrary,  passing  through 
pleasant  streets  as  silent  as  those  that  encircle  a  cathedral 
close.  The  streets,  moreover,  were  practically  empty 
and  for  the  morality  and  integrity  of  the  few  who  passed 
by  I  was  prepared  to  vouch  even  in  the  dark. 

I  thought  I  might  see  through  some  open  window  a 
room  glaring  with  light  and  reeking  with  the  ill  odours, 
the  ribald  sounds  and  the  drunken  antics  of  a  supper 
table.  Possibly,  through  another  window,  I  should 
behold  wild-haired  men  and  shamelessly  dressed  women 
bending  over  a  green  cloth  speckled  with  cards.  I  saw 
only  sleeping  villas  and  drowsy  gardens  that  breathed 
nothing  but  content  and  peace.  With  the  romances 
working  in  my  mind  it  would  have  been  hardly  a  matter 
of  surprise  had  I  come  upon  a  man  in  dress  clothes, 
lying  on  his  back  in  the  pathway,  with  a  wet  crimson 
patch  spreading  over  the  front  of  his  white  shirt.  Happily 
I  saw  no  such  thing.  Monte  Carlo,  so  far,  had  failed; 
failed  in  that  it  was  not  the  place  I  had  been  led  to 
expect  by  the  writers  of  fiction. 

Next  morning,  before  the  sun  rose,  I  stepped  out  of 
my  bedroom  window  on  to  the  balcony  to  take  a  first 
look  at  the  amazing  city.  It  was  now  Christmas  Day 
and  still  very  dark.    From  the  height  at  which  I  stood  I 

i88 


The  Monte  Carlo  of  the  Novelist 

appeared  to  be  looking  into  a  limitless  vault  with  above 
a  dome  of  the  deepest  blue,  dotted  with  stars,  and  below 
a  floor  flooded  by  a  sea  whose  surface  was  as  ruffled 
metal. 

The  only  light  came  from  a  gap  in  the  east,  at  the 
uttermost  limit  of  the  vast  water.  It  was  a  rare  and 
tender  light  that  seemed  to  be  reflected  up  from  the 
depths.  A  level  band  of  orange  stretched  along  the  sea 
and  over  it  was  a  wash  of  cowslip  yellow  that,  fading  into 
the  half-suggested  green  of  an  opening  leaf,  was  lost 
higher  still  in  a  flood  of  blue.  Against  this  ineffable 
glow  stood  up,  in  a  black,  hard  silhouette,  the  tops  of 
houses. 

It  was  evident  that  on  the  slope  below  me  was  a  town 
and,  at  the  foot  of  the  town,  a  harbour.  The  town  was 
a  mere  dark  mass,  so  confused  that  it  might  have  been 
a  jumble  of  black  rocks,  save  that,  here  and  there,  were 
tiny  lights — lights  evidently  in  upper  windows.  From 
one  hidden  casement  near  by,  that  must  have  been  open 
and  uncurtained,  a  gleam  fell  upon  the  side  of  a  villa 
revealing  every  detail  of  shutter  and  balcony  as  well  as 
a  strip  of  bright  ornament  painted  on  the  wall.  The 
harbour  was  made  manifest  by  two  black  piers  with  a 
light  at  the  end  of  each — one  green,  one  red — by  a  sheen, 
like  that  of  quicksilver,  on  the  water  in  the  basin  and  by 
a  row  of  lamps  upon  the  three  sides  of  the  quay. 

Beyond  the  harbour  was  a  towering  dull  mass  that  I 

knew  to  be  Monaco.     It  was  picked  out  by  a  few  dots 

of  light  which  came,  no  doubt,  from  scattered  rooms 

and  by  vague  towers  scarcely  visible  before  the  sullen 

curtain  of  the  sky. 

To  the  east  there  stood  out,  very  cleanly  cut  against 

189 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

the  delicate  light  of  the  coming  day,  certain  black 
pinnacles  and  domes.  They  looked  like  the  peaks  of 
some  fantastic  oriental  temple  but  I  recognised  them  as 
belonging  to  the  Casino  and  the  great  hotel. 

Clear  in  the  heaven,  above  these  pinnacles  and  domes, 
blazed  one  large,  brilliant  star.  It  was,  I  imagine,  the 
very  Star  in  the  East  that  two  thousand  years  ago  shone 
over  the  stable  at  Bethlehem. 


190 


XXVI 

MONTE   CARLO 

MONTE  CARLO^  lies  on  the  very  edge  of  the 
sea  at  the  foot  of  a  broken  range  of  grey  hills 
as  if  it  were  a  patch  of  flowers  at  the  foot  of  an 
ancient  wall.  As  a  town  it  takes  the  form  of  a  sloping 
pile  of  houses  and  terraces  which,  when  the  sun  falls  on 
them,  are  a  brilliant  maize-yellow  with  splashes  of  white, 
of  russet-red  for  the  roofs  and  of  green  for  the  palms 
and  the  gardens.  Viewed  at  sundown,  from  a  long  way 
off,  it  would  seem  as  if  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  where  it 
touches  the  sea,  had  been  gilded  with  dull  gold. 

Compared  with  the  old  towns  around  it  Monte  Carlo 
is  so  new,  so  fresh,  so  bright  that  it  may  be  the  city  of 
youth,  an  embodiment  of  youth  itself,  of  careless,  reck- 
less, sensuous  youth.  It  is  so  young  that  there  is  not 
a  wrinkle  on  its  face,  although  the  cheek  may  be  a  trifle 
tinted  and  the  lips  unduly  red.  Its  streets  recall  the 
gaiety  of  youth,  its  lavish  gardens  proclaim  the  indulgence 
and  the  luxury  of  youth,  its  crags  and  ravines  the  spirit 
of  adventure,  its  clear  sky  the  far  vision  of  youth  and  its 
blazing  sun  the  fierce  passion  of  youth. 

The  gorgeous  white  Casino  would  seem  to  realise,  in 
such  a  city,  the  fantasy  of  youth.  It  is  so  immense,  so 
impossible,  so  unlike  any  conception  of  sober  middle  age, 

^  The  name  Monte  Carlo  is  derived  from  Prince  Charles  III.  of  Monaco. 

191 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

so  unreal,  so  daring.  It  conforms  to  the  type  of  no 
ordinary  building.  Its  architecture  is  not  of  this  .world 
of  common  things,  although  it  may  possibly  approach  that 
of  the  exuberant  temple  in  white  on  the  top  of  a  wedding 
cake. 

The  Casino,  in  its  extravagance,  is  indeed  just  such 
a  castle  in  the  air  as  a  young  man  would  build,  a 
fabric  of  his  dream,  his  palace  of  delight.  The  very 
town  tingles  with  life,  with  excitement,  with  restless- 
ness, with  the  playfulness  of  everything.  It  is  a  butterfly 
town,  for  it  lives  only  for  a  few  gay  months.  The  air 
is  laden  with  the  scent  of  flowers,  while  the  honeymoon 
wind  lies  asleep  on  the  heaving  bosom  of  the  deep. 

Moreover  it  is  a  town  of  the  south,  of  the  warm, 
indolent  south,  where,  as  Sancho  Panza  would  say,  there 
is — whatever  happens — "  still  sun  on  the  wall."  Here 
in  the  south,  as  compared  with  the  north,  the  seasons 
are  reversed.  The  winter  is  the  time  for  pleasure;  the 
summer  for  rest,  for  seclusion  within  shut  doors  and,  it 
may  be,  for  forgetfulness  of  things. 

The  winter  in  the  north  is  symbolic  of  the  closing 

days  of  life  and  of  the  weariness  of  old  age ;   for  the 

world  has  then  become  cold,  dark  and  cheerless,  as  well 

as  indifferent  and  possibly  unkind.     The  summer  in  the 

south  is,  in  its  turn,  the  symbol  of  the  end  of  the  pageant 

of  youth.     The  gardens  are  faded  and  parched  up,  the 

flowers  are  withered  and  dead,  the  grass  is  a  waste  of 

arid  brown,  the  fountains  are  dry  and  the  very  earth  is 

cracked   with  thirst.      The    world,    spent   and   panting, 

has  sunk  into  a  drugged  sleep  like  a  man  exhausted  by 

a  fever.    The  days  of  riotous  living  have  come  to  an  end ; 

passion  has  burnt  itself  out;  the  rivers  of  pleasure  are 

192 


Monte  Carlo 

now  beds  of  stone  and  the  Dead  Sea  apple  is  the  only 
fruit  left  on  the  tree. 

As  the  southern  winter  begins  again  the  freshly-sown 
grass  springs  up ;  the  lawns  become  green ;  the  buds 
open;  the  roses,  the  heliotrope,  the  geraniums  and  the 
mimosa  break  into  flower  and  the  world  is  as  gay  as  the 
sun  and  a  caressing  wind  can  make  it. 

It  is  then  a  tempting  time  to  think  of  the  drab,  mist- 
shrouded  island  of  England  with  its  sodden  fields  and 
the  rain  dripping  from  the  thatch,  of  London,  of  those 
sad  houses  and  those  awful  streets,  of  the  slush-covered 
roads,  of  the  muffled  faces  and  the  blue  hands,  of  the 
hours  of  semi-darkness,  of  the  sun  that  is  seen  as  a  red 
disc  in  a  fog. 

Because  Monte  Carlo,  as  a  town,  appears  to  be  sym- 
bolic of  all  that  is  young  it  must  not  be  assumed  that  its 
inhabitants  have  acquired  eternal  youth.  Many  attempt 
it,  many  struggle  to  attain  it  with  an  eagerness  which  is 
pathetic  and  pitiable.  They  are  like  gaily-dressed  ghosts, 
a  little  stiff  in  movement,  following  a  figure  that  dances 
before  them  like  a  faun.  There  is  a  butterfly  called 
'*The  Painted  Lady"  and  perhaps  it  will  suffice  to  say 
that  the  existence  of  this  fluttering  thing  will  come  often 
to  the  minds  of  those  who  stroll  along  the  Terrace  in 
the  sun. 

Apart  from  its  suggestion  of  youthfulness  Monte  Carlo 
is  a  town  full  of  remarkable  contrasts  as  extreme  as  the 
black  shadow  of  a  cypress  on  a  marble  wall.  On  one  side 
of  the  haven,  with  its  chapel  to  Ste.  Devote,  rises  the 
great  rock  of  Monaco.  On  its  summit  stand  the  palace, 
the  fortress  and  the  little  town — all  three  so  staid,  so 

grey,  so  very,  very  old — just  as  they  have  stood  in  com- 

N  193 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

pany  through  some  six  hundred  years.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  chapel,  on  rising  ground,  lies  Monte  Carlo, 
modern  in  every  fibre  of  its  being,  a  town  that  has  sprung 
up  in  a  night  like  a  gaudily-tinted  fungus,  a  brilliant, 
vivid  place,  slashed  with  colour  like  a  jester's  coat,  as 
ephemeral  as  a  rainbow,  since  any  change  in  the  public 
taste  may  cause  it  to  fade  into  nothingness. 

On  the  crest  of  the  hill  above  Monte  Carlo  there 
stands,  against  the  skyline,  the  massive  monument  in 
stone  set  up  by  the  Emperor  Augustus  to  mark  the 
victory  of  Rome  over  a  horde  of  savages ;  while  below, 
by  the  edge  of  the  sea,  are  the  pinnacles  of  the  Casino, 
a  monument  in  papier  mache  to  mark  the  subjection  of 
a  cultured  folk  to  the  mastery  of  a  passion. 

Climbing  the  mountain  behind  the  town  is  still  the 
ancient  road  that,  more  than  two  thousand  years  ago,  led 
from  the  Roman  forum  into  Gaul ;  while,  by  the  water's 
edge,  on  the  other  hand,  are  the  railway,  the  motor 
track  and  a  hydroplane  that  has  just  flown  over  from 
Corsica. 

All  around  Monte  Carlo,  from  the  east  to  the  west, 
are  the  cave-dwellings  of  prehistoric  men,  a  brutish  people 
clad  in  wolf  skins;  while  in  the  town  itself  are  hotels  of 
unparalleled  luxury  and,  on  the  Terrace,  a  company  of 
pampered  men  and  women  decked  in  all  the  "  purple  and 
fine  linen  '*  that  the  world  can  provide. 

Still  more  curious  is  it  that  the  great  modern  forts 
of  Mont  Agel  and  the  Tete  de  Chien  actually  look  down 
upon  a  line  of  fortified  camps  and  stone  strongholds 
built  by  the  Ligurians  before  the  dawn  of  history. 


194 


XXVII 

SOME   DIVERSIONS    OF   MONTE   CARLO 

THE  General  Atmosphere. — The  atmosphere  of 
Monte  Carlo  is  the  subject  of  some  comment. 
It  is  in  fact  complained  of.  The  air  over  the 
town  is  not  said  to  be  unpleasant  in  colour;  it  is  not, 
for  example,  stated  to  be  green  or  j^ellow.  The  charge 
is  that  the  atmosphere  is  "vitiated."  Now  in  the 
dictionary  "to  vitiate"  is  said  to  mean  "to  corrupt, 
debase  or  contaminate  "  and  therefore  the  accusation  is 
a  grave  one. 

In  defence  it  can  be  claimed  that  the  moral  atmosphere 
in  Monte  Carlo  is  not  so  vitiated  as  it  is  in  London  or 
in  Paris.  There  are  visitors  to  the  principality — both 
men  and  women — who  are  indulgently  described  as 
"undesirable";  but  they  are  not  peculiar  to  Monte 
Carlo,  nor  do  they  form  even  a  conspicuous  item  in  its 
holiday  population. 

Moreover  the  innocent  visitor  to  the  town  is  not 
of  necessity  thrust  into  the  society  of  these  people.  If 
they  are  not  desired  they  can  be  avoided  as  easily  as  they 
can  be  at  Trouville  or  at  Brighton.  Monte  Carlo  may 
not  be  sanctimonious,  but  it  does  not  flaunt  its  vices  as 
some  towns  do  their  virtues. 

Moreover  so  well  is  Monte  Carlo  controlled  that  the 
young  lady,  when  necessity  demands,  can  walk  from  the 

195 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

Opera  House  to  her  hotel  without  fear  of  being  incom- 
moded, a  venture  that  she  would  not  essay  in  either 
London  or  Paris;  while  she  will  see  less  to  offend  her 
on  the  Casino  Terrace  than  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  As 
for  the  young  man  he  is  more  free  from  molestation  in 
the  boulevards  of  Monte  Carlo  than  he  would  be  in 
Regent  Street. 

Those  who  wish  to  live  the  plain,  unemotional  life  of 
a  French  country  town  will  find  that  Monte  Carlo  fulfils 
their  needs.  They  will  meet  with  neither  shocks  nor 
distractions  unless  they  seek  them ;  for  the  circle  within 
which  the  florid  society  of  the  town  revolves  is — like 
the  roulette  wheel — extremely  small;  whereas  the  quiet 
streets  of  Monaco,  the  olive  groves,  the  hill  paths,  the 
lonely  walks  form  a  world  that  opens  far. 

The  Gambling. — The  strictures  bestowed  upon  the 
gaming  rooms  are  apt  to  be  a  little  violent  and  sweeping. 
I  assume  that  no  one  can  say  a  word  in  favour  of 
gambling,  nor  even  excuse  it.  It  is  no  doubt  a  feeble 
apology  to  claim  that  there  are  degrees  of  gambling, 
that  every  race-course  and  every  Bourse  exhibits  a  more 
pernicious  and  more  damaging  form  of  **  play  "  than  can 
be  laid  to  the  charge  of  the  Casino.  The  gambler  at 
Monte  Carlo  injures  no  one  directly  but  himself.  He 
knows  at  least  that  the  Administration  is  above  suspicion 
and  that  the  same  virtue  cannot  be  claimed  for  the 
whole  body  of  bookmakers.  Gambling  on  the  public 
markets  may  implicate  innocent  people  to  their  undoing 
and  when  it  deals  with  the  necessaries  of  life  and  leads 
to  the  making  of  "  corners  "  in  this  commodity  or  in 
that  it  may  involve  a  whole  community  in  loss  and 
distress.     There   is   indeed   a   wide  difference   between 

196 


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o 


Some  Diversions  of  Monte  Carlo 

gambling  with  plaques  on  a  green  cloth  and  gambling 
with  corn. 

Play  at  the  Casino  is  for  the  reckless  rich  and  the 
foolish  and  these  happen  to  be  two  varieties  of  mankind 
peculiarly  difficult  to  control.  When  once  it  is  under- 
stood that,  in  the  long  run,  the  Tables  must  win  and 
do  win  then  let  the  poor  man  be  advised.  The  fool  will 
not  accept  advice,  the  rich  man  does  not  need  it  and 
so  the  game  goes  on. 

It  is,  no  doubt,  an  equally  feeble  defence  to  point 
out  that  the  Casino  does  great  good  with  its  gains.  It 
keeps  the  little  principality  in  perfect  order  and  makes 
it  a  reliable  health  resort.  It  is  no  vain  boast  to  say 
that  Monte  Carlo  is  the  cleanest  and  trimmest  town  in 
France,  that  it  is  dustless  and  that  its  sanitation  is  good. 
The  Casino  provides  the  police  and  the  public  officers, 
maintains  the  roads  and  a  garden  which  is  the  delight 
of  many,  while  it  affords  to  its  people  a  degree  of  comfort 
and  security  which  is  not  to  be  belittled  at  the  present 
day.  Moreover  through  funds  derived  from  the  Adminis- 
tration churches  and  museums  are  built,  schools  and 
hospitals  are  maintained  and  real  poverty  is  abolished. 
These  facts  do  not  make  gambling  a  virtue,  but  they 
serve  to  temper  a  slashing  and  wholly  destructive 
criticism. 

A  large  proportion  of  people  gamble  for  what  they 
call  "the  fun  of  the  thing."  The  term  is  difficult  to 
define,  but  if  they  find  amusement  and  can  afford  that 
amusement  there  is  little  to  be  said. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  describe  the  salles  de  jeu.    They 

have   been   pictured — with   exact  or   inexact   details — a 

hundred  times  and  have  figured  more  often  in  works  of 

197 


'^  The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

fiction  than  have  any  other  actual  apartments  in  the 
world.  The  miscellaneous  people  who  cluster  round  the 
tables  are  said  to  provide  an  interesting  study  in  faces. 
The  study  is  limited.  All  are  supposed  to  be  "  playing  '* 
— playing,  it  may  be  assumed,  as  children  play  at  a  game 
— but  their  countenances  are  so  sad  and  so  serious  that 
a  stranger  to  the  "games"  of  modern  life  might  think 
that  they  were  sitting  round  a  post-mortem  table  with 
a  deceased  person  laid  out  on  the  cloth.  An  observer 
endowed  with  especial  gifts  might  detect  evidences  of 
greed,  of  anxiety,  of  despair,  of  forlorn  hope,  but  to  an 
ordinary  looker-on  there  is  little  to  note  beyond  a  general 
expression  of  uneasy  boredom. 

The  Pigeon  Shooting. — There  is  one  blot  on  Monte 
Carlo — a  large,  crimson  blot — in  the  form  of  the  pigeon 
shooting.  This  diversion  takes  place  on  a  pleasant  green 
just  below  the  terrace  of  the  Casino,  between  it  and  the 
sea.  There  lies  a  level  lawn  upon  which  one  might 
expect  to  see  lads  and  lasses  playing  croquet ;  but  in  the 
centre  of  the  grass  are  certain  slabs  of  concrete  arranged 
in  a  curve  with  horrible  precision.  They  may  be  the 
marks  upon  which  blindfolded  criminals  are  stood  when 
ranged  out  to  be  shot,  but  this  execution  yard  is  used 
for  a  different  purpose. 

On  the  concrete  disks,  when  the  sport  is  in  progress, 
iron  traps  are  placed  and  into  each  of  these  a  pigeon, 
half-crazed  with  fright,  is  stuffed.  The  trap  drops  open 
with  a  clatter,  the  bird  sees  before  it  the  quiet  blue  of 
heaven,  rises  on  its  wings,  and  in  a  second  is  either 
maimed  or  dead.  If  not  too  badly  wounded  it  may 
flutter  over  the  fence  and  fall  into  the  sea  to  be  grabbed 
by  a  man  in  a  boat,  for  some  half-dozen  boats  are  always 

198 


Some  Diversions  of  Monte  Carlo 

waiting    under    the    lee    of    the    rock    for    such    choice 
windfalls. 

People  in  some  numbers  watch  this  vile  massacre 
from  the  terrace,  but  their  concern — almost  to  a  man 
— is  with  the  pigeon.  If  the  pigeon  escapes  unharmed, 
as  occasionally  happens,  there  is  a  gasp  of  relief  and 
gratification.  The  bird  so  saved  generally  alights  on  the 
Casino  roof  and,  in  course  of  time,  no  doubt  joins  the 
fearless  crowd  of  pigeons  who  haunt  the  roadway  and 
strut  among  the  out-of-door  tables  of  the  Cafe  de  Paris. 
There  is  a  curious  bond  uniting  this  community  of  birds, 
the  common  tie  of  having  been  condemned  to  death  and 
of  having  been  by  accident  reprieved. 

In  pigeon  shooting  from  traps  there  is  not  the  faintest 
element  of  sport.  It  is  merely  an  exhibition  of  mean 
brutality  which  is  totally  opposed  to  the  British  concep- 
tion of  sport  and  it  is  gratifying  to  note  that  among  the 
competitors  in  this  contemptible  game  an  English  name 
is  uncommon.  The  terrified  pigeon  pegged  out  to  be 
shot  at  has  practically  no  chance,  while  the  skill  displayed 
by  the  most  apt  of  the  pseudo-sportsmen  is  of  a  paltry 
order. 

To  realise  a  turning  of  the  tables  it  should  happen 

one  day  that  the  sides  of  the  trap  would  drop  and  reveal, 

not  a  shivering  pigeon,  but  a  live  man-eating  tiger  who, 

with  his  yellow  and  black  stripes  showing  well  against 

the  green,  would  stalk,  snarling,  towards  the  firing  party. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  see  these  deadly  marksmen 

bolt  screaming  right  and  left  and  throw  themselves  into 

the  sea  to  be  picked  up  by  the  boatmen  on  the  look-out 

for  wounded  pigeons. 

The  Theatre, — The  opera,  the  concerts  and  the  minor 

199 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

entertainments  at  Monte  Carlo  are  famous  and  are 
allowed  to  be  of  very  high  order.  A  series  of  ballets 
also  occupies  the  season  and  these  too  are  approved  by 
heads  of  families.  It  is  to  be  owned  that  in  most  of  the 
ballets  a  love  element  is  prominent,  but  the  love-making 
is  conducted  on  such  formal  and  gymnastic  lines  that  it 
is  not  likely  to  encourage  imitators. 

The  young  man,  according  to  accepted  practice, 
pursues  the  lady.  In  doing  so  he  revolves  Hke  a  top, 
while  she  also  gyrates  after  the  manner  of  that  toy.  He 
rubs  his  chest  with  his  hand  to  show  that  his  heart  is 
affected.  She  then  lifts  her  foot  above  her  head  to  show 
that  she  is  unmoved  by  the  information.  He  pursues 
her  again  but  this  time  with  bounds.  She  retreats  with 
tiny  steps  and  ultimately  takes  refuge  in  the  extreme 
corner  of  the  stage  by  the  footlights.  Here  she  wriggles 
her  shoulders  and  puts  a  forefinger  in  the  corner  of  her 
mouth.  He  is  much  encouraged  by  these  evidences  of 
a  dawning  amiability  and  leaps  repeatedly  into  the  air. 
They  then  dance  together  with  some  exuberance  and 
finally  he  grasps  her  by  the  waist  and  turns  her  upside 
down,  so  that  her  head  rests  on  the  boards.  This  shows 
that  they  are  engaged;  a  conclusion  which  is  approved 
by  a  sudden  crowd  of  lightly  clad  villagers  in  antics  of 
bewildering  violence. 

The  Dog  Show. — A  feature  of  the  season  at  Monte 
Carlo  is  the  Dog  Show.  It  is  held  on  the  terrace  and 
is  unique  of  its  kind.  It  is  not  really  a  dog  show  but 
rather  a  dogs'  afternoon  party  or  conversazione,  where 
dogs  of  both  sexes  meet,  renew  acquaintances,  gossip 
after  their  fashion  with  much  tail-wagging  and  at  times 
cut  one  another  or  quarrel.     There  are  no  stands  upon 

200 


Some  Diversions  of  Monte  Carlo 

which  the  dogs  are  staged,  no  kennels,  no  baskets  with 
rugs  in  which  they  He  curled  up  and  bored  to  death,  no 
posts  to  which  they  can  be  tied  and  howl.  There  are 
no  placards,  no  cards,  no  advertisements  of  dog  biscuits, 
no  straw  and,  indeed,  none  of  the  paraphernalia  of  an 
actual  dog  show. 

The  affair  is,  in  reality,  a  Show  of  Dog  Owners  held 
for  the  edification  and  amusement  of  the  dogs  and, 
incidentally,  of  others.  The  dog  owners  (mostly  ladies) 
are  dressed  in  their  very  best,  as  they  should  be  when 
on  show,  and  are  led  about  by  the  dogs  through  a  cheerful, 
rambling  crowd.  At  intervals  a  man  with  a  megaphone 
shouts  from  the  bandstand  the  names  of  certain  dog 
owners.  Whereupon  the  dogs  lead  their  owners,  thus 
selected,  into  a  circle  beneath  the  megaphone  and  some 
judging  takes  place.  There  is  a  general  hubbub,  much 
chattering  and  barking  and  some  craning  of  necks  when 
an  exceptionally  pretty  owner  occupies  the  ring. 

At  the  end  rosettes,  as  badges  of  merit,  are  handed 
to  the  fortunate  and  are  affixed  to  the  dogs'  collars. 
The  dog  who  is  pleased  with  what  his  owner  has  won 
trots  off  with  contentment  and  with  the  lady ;  but  the 
dog  who  is  dissatisfied  sits  obstinately  down,  in  spite  of 
all  protests,  and  proceeds  to  remove  the  offensive  emblem 
with  his  foot. 

Golf. — In  the  early  hours  of  the  day  there  is  often 
a  spectacle  provided  in  Monte  Carlo  which  is  difficult  to 
appreciate.  A  number  of  persons — young,  middle-aged 
and  ancient,  male  and  female — will  arise  at  an  unwonted 
hour,  scramble  through  breakfast  and  start  to  climb  up 
a  cliff  of  3,000  feet.  They  cannot  be  making  this  arduous 
ascent  to  see  the  sun  rise,  for  the  sun  is  already  up. 

201 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

They  can  hardly  be  contemplating  a  view  from  the 
height,  for  the  hill  may  be  hidden  in  mist.  They  could 
not  be  hastening  to  a  pilgrimage  church  to  pray,  because 
they  do  not  look  devotional  enough;  nor  is  there  a 
suggestion  of  piety  in  their  dress,  for  they  wear  boots 
heavy  with  nails,  knickerbockers  and  a  reckless  type  of 
hat. 

They  are  ascending  some  3,000  feet  under  arduous 
conditions  for  the  purpose  of  knocking  a  ball — a  small 
and  expensive  ball — along  the  ground  with  a  stick.  This 
is  golf ;  a  proceeding  that  is  with  many  one  of  the  rare 
joys  of  life.  Golf  has  many  charms  and  not  the  least  is 
that  it  is  a  game  for  everyone.  It  fires  the  youth  with 
ambition  and  comforts  the  aged,  for  it  fosters  the  delusion 
that  the  end  of  their  days  is  not  yet.  The  inefficient  can 
play  with  the  expert,  without  heartburnings  and  without 
reproach  and  receive  sympathy  in  the  place  of  sarcasm. 
The  lamb,  indeed,  can  lie  down  with  the  lion  and  now 
and  then  bleat,  in  the  golfer's  tongue,  "  like  as  we  lie." 
The  man  who  wishes  to  be  alone  can  play  alone.  The 
man  who  loves  company  can  ' '  go  round  "  in  a  party  of 
four  and  chatter  to  them  all  at  once  and  all  the  time. 
Golf  too  is  a  discipline,  for  the  spirit  of  golf  is  hope. 
The  golfer  who  has  abandoned  hope  is  lost.  Lost  too  is 
the  fatalist  who  knows  he  is  in  a  bunker  before  he  gets 
there. 

Golf,  moreover,  is  played  under  pleasant  conditions 
in  the  open  air,  among  sand  dunes,  or  by  sea  beaches, 
or  on  breezy  downs  and  in  light-hearted  surroundings; 
for  there  are  few  links  that  are  not  picturesque  and 
cheery.  It  is  besides  a  pleasant  game  to  watch  for  the 
human  element  in  it  is   so  interesting.     There  is,   for 

202 


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Some  Diversions  of  Monte  Carlo 

example,  that  fascinating  disproportion  between  the  effort 
made  and  the  result  that  may  be  attained.  The  man  at 
the  tee  stands  with  rigid  limbs,  with  every  muscle  tense, 
with  clenched  teeth  and  a  fixed  glare  in  the  eye.  Then 
comes  a  swish  with  a  club  that — if  a  sword — would 
decapitate  an  ox  and,  as  a  result,  the  ball  dribbles 
languidly  a  few  mocking  feet.  If  the  man  fails  by  mis- 
applied violence  the  lady  is  apt  to  fail  by  moulding  her 
action  on  the  photographic  pose  of  lady  players  in  the 
society  journals.  She  wants  to  get  to  the  "follow 
through  "  attitude,  when  her  club  will  be  in  the  air,  her 
face  in  a  good  light  and  the  tip  of  her  right  shoe  just 
touching  the  ground. 

The  caddies  too  are  an  interesting  company  to  watch. 
Being  young  they  are  unable  to  restrain  the  expression  of 
the  emotions  and  this  is  often  disconcerting.  When  a 
fine  shot  is  made  the  aspect  of  the  caddie  is  that  of 
serious  anxiety,  for  he  has  to  keep  the  ball  in  sight. 
When  a  really  bad  stroke  is  taken  he  must  laugh  and 
when  he  is  compelled — in  order  to  conceal  his  laughter — 
to  bury  his  face  in  the  breast  of  a  fellow-caddie  the  sight 
of  the  convulsed  boy,  hanging  on  to  a  friend,  calls  for 
great  restraint  on  the  part  of  the  player. 

The  fragments  of  English  picked  up  by  foreign 
caddies  are  always  curious  and  nearly  always  unhappy. 
I  recall  a  caddie  in  Egypt  who  spoke  nothing  but 
Arabic-;  but  who,  after  a  very  woeful  shot  burst  out,  to 
my  surprise,  with  the  petulant  remark,  "  Hell's  own 
luck!  "  I  learnt  later  that  he  used  to  "carry"  for  a 
profane  judge. 

An  excellent  motor-bus  service  takes  the  golfer  up  to 
the  links  direct,  or,  if  he  prefers  it,  he  can  ascend  by 

203 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

train  to  La  Turbie  and  climb  the  rest  of  the  way  by 
the  path.  The  Unks  are  on  a  breezy  plateau  just  below 
the  peak  of  Mont  Agel  and  at  the  height  of  some  3,000 
feet  above  the  sea.  It  is  a  plateau  that  means  well,  that 
intends  to  be  orderly  but  is  always  backsliding  and 
reverting  to  savagery.  It  is  constantly  tempted  to  break 
out  into  a  precipice  or  lapse  into  a  gorge  but  restrains 
itself  just  in  time.  Its  praiseworthy  efforts  to  become 
a  green  plateau  are  almost  pathetic  but  it  gives  way 
often  and  original  sin  crops  out  in  the  form  of  horrible 
rocks. 

The  result  is  an  area  of  rugged  land  of  great  variety 
and  picturesqueness,  a  beautiful  medley  of  half -tamed 
meads  and  wild  boulders,  of  smooth  lawns  like  sheets  of 
green  velvet  amid  grey  and  wizened  crags.  The  view  is 
astounding.  To  the  north  are  the  Maritime  Alps,  peak 
after  peak,  deep  in  snow;  to  the  south  is  the  warm,  blue 
Mediterranean  and,  often  enough,  the  ghostly  island  of 
Corsica  lying  on  the  sea  like  a  lilac  cloud.  On  either 
side  is  a  stretch  of  coast  of  immeasurable  extent,  leading 
far  down  into  Italy  on  the  east  and,  on  the  west,  ranging 
beyond  the  Lerin  Islands  and  the  Esterels  to  St.  Tropez, 
near  Hyeres,  a  distance  of  some  fifty  miles.  The  club 
house  is  a  model  of  modern  comfort  and  as  the  restaurant 
is  controlled  by  the  Hotel  de  Paris  the  golfer  and  the 
crowd  of  visitors  can  obtain  as  good  a  lunch  on  this 
bare  mountain-top  as  they  would  obtain  in  Monte  Carlo 
and  that  too  with  a  better  appetite.  The  success  of  the 
club  is  largely  due  to  the  untiring  efforts  of  the  secretary, 
Mr.  Galbraith  Horn,  whose  geniality,  capacity  and 
kindness  are  held  in  grateful  memory  by  every  visitor  to 
Mont  Agel. 

204 


Some  Diversions  of  Monte  Carlo 

Coming  back  from  the  links  in  the  motor-bus  the 
whispered  conversations  that  may  be  overheard  are 
illustrative  and  will  vary  much  according  to  the  speaker. 
A  fat  man  may  be  saying,  "  The  gravy  was  the  best  I 
ever  tasted,"  and  the  lean  man,  "  Although  I  did  it  in 
five  I  had  to  halve  the  hole  " ;  while  a  lady  may  remark, 
"Well!  how  she  could  come  out  in  that  hat  I  don't 
know !  " 


205 


XXVIII 

AN   OLD   ROMAN   POSTING   TOWN 

AROUND  Monte  Carlo  the  mountains  crowd  down 
to  the  sea  with  such  menace  as  to  threaten  to 
push  the  Hght-hearted  town  into  the  deep,  for 
the  sloping  ledge  to  which  it  holds  is  narrow.  Thus  it 
is  that  hanging  above  Monte  Carlo  is  a  steep  mountain 
side,  half  slope,  half  precipice,  green  wherever  an  olive 
tree  or  a  pine  can  cling,  grey  where  the  rock  lies  bare  or 
where  the  cliff  soars  upwards. 

On  the  summit  of  this  stupendous  barrier  and  at  a 
height  of  1,574  feet  is  La  Turbie.  Gazing  up  from  the 
streets  of  Monte  Carlo  the  place  can  be  located,  although 
neither  its  walls,  nor  its  houses  nor  any  part  of  it  are 
visible ;  but  it  is  indicated  by  two  remarkable  objects 
which  stand  out  clear  on  the  sky  line.  They  are  strange 
and  ill-assorted.  One  of  the  objects  is  a  vast  pillar  or 
tower  of  stone,  of  the  colour  of  a  wheat  stalk.  From 
the  Casino  garden,  half  a  mile  below,  it  looks  like  a 
gigantic  brick  standing  on  end  and  turned  edgeways. 
This  is  the  Roman  monument  of  Augustus  erected  over 
1,900  years  ago.  The  other  object,  placed  by  its  side, 
is  a  coral-pink  hotel  that  may  have  sprung  up  in  the 
night.  Its  outline  is  intentionally  fantastic  for  it  is  built 
in  "the  Oriental  style"  in  the  belief  that  the  simple 
might  mistake  it  for  a  mosque  or  a  palace  of  the  caliphs. 

2Q6 


LA   TURBIE  :    THE  ROMAN    MONUMENT. 


An  Old  Roman  Posting  Town 

In  spite  of  its  appearance  it  is  popular  and  well  esteemed. 
It  is  a  theatrical  creation  as  gaudy  as  if  it  were  flooded 
by  a  rose-tinted  limelight  and  as  out  of  place  on  the 
top  of  the  stately  cliff  as  a  cheap  Paris  bonnet  on  the 
head  of  the  Venus  de  Milo. 

There  are  many  ways  of  reaching  La  Turbie  from  the 
lower  ground.  For  carriages  there  is  the  Cemetery  road. 
It  is  so  called,  not  because  it  is  dangerous  to  motorists, 
but  because  it  passes  a  cemetery.  It  winds  in  and  out 
among  the  prehistoric  fortifications  of  Mont  des  Mules 
and  Mont  Justicier,  but  is  so  irresolute,  so  capricious,  so 
inclined  to  go  any  way  rather  than  up  hill  to  La  Turbie 
that  the  route  is  exasperating.  The  track  of  the  road  is 
like  the  track  of  a  drunken  man  who  has  become  obstinate 
and  deaf  to  all  persuasions  to  go  straight  home. 

There  are  two  mule  paths  up  to  the  town,  one  on 
either  side  of  the  Vallon  des  Gaumates,  the  Moneghetti 
path  on  the  west  and  the  Bordina  on  the  east.  These  paths 
are  at  least  direct  and  know  where  they  are  going.  They 
are  paved  with  cobble  stones,  are  arranged  in  long  steps, 
are  as  monotonous  as  a  treadmill  and  probably  as  tiring. 
They  are  paths  that  might  have  climbed  up  the  penitential 
heights  in  Dante's  "  Purgatorio."  Still  they  pass  by 
pleasant  ways  among  the  shadows  of  the  olives  and  the 
slips  of  garden  piled  one  above  the  other  on  green  ledges. 
Moreover  they  are  the  old  primitive  roads  of  the  country, 
the  roads  trod  by  the  mediaeval  pedlar,  by  the  wandering 
monk  and  by  the  errant  knight.  Of  all  works  of  man 
throughout  the  ages  they  are  among  the  oldest  and  the 
least  disturbed  by  change. 

It  is  possible  also  to  reach  La  Turbie  from  Monte 

Carlo  by  the  rack-and-pinion  railway.     The  traveller  sits 

207 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

in  a  carriage  that  slopes  like  a  roof  and  is  pushed  up  hill 
from  behind  by  an  engine  that  puffs  like  an  asthmatic 
person  overpowered  by  rage.  There  are  three  stations  to 
be  passed  on  the  way.  Nothing  happens  at  two  of  these 
stations  except  that  the  train  stops.  It  is  merely  a 
ceremonial  act.  There  would  be  anxiety  and  inquiries 
of  the  guard  if  anyone  got  in  or  got  out.  One  station  is 
in  a  drear  rocky  waste,  far  removed  from  the  haunts  of 
men.  The  only  passenger  that  could  be  expected  to 
alight  here  would  be  a  scapegoat  laden  with  the  sins  of 
Monte  Carlo  and  eager  to  get  away  from  the  unquiet 
world  and  be  lost  in  the  wilderness. 

La  Turbie,  or  Turbia,  was  a  Roman  town.  It  stood 
on  the  famous  road  that  led  from  Rome  into  Gaul.  It 
was  a  busy  and  prosperous  place  that  probably  attained 
to  its  greatest  importance  about  two  thousand  years  ago, 
for  the  town  goes  back  to  a  period  before  the  time  of 
Christ.  When  La  Turbie  was  at  the  height  of  its  vigour 
Monaco  was  a  barren  rock.  Indeed  when  the  first  build- 
ing appeared  upon  Monaco  La  Turbie  was  already  more 
than  twelve  centuries  old. 

The  ancient  Roman  road — the  Aurelian  Way  as  it 
was  called — ran  from  the  Forum  at  Rome  to  Aries  on 
the  banks  of  the  Rhone.  Its  total  length,  according  to 
Dr.  George  Mliller,  was  797  miles.  It  was  commenced 
in  the  year  B.C.  241  and  its  construction  occupied  many 
decades. 

Starting  from  the  Forum  it  followed  the  coast  north- 
wards. It  passed  through  Pisa,  Spezia  and  Genoa. 
Then  turning  westwards  it  came  to  Ventimiglia,  where 
it  followed  the  line  of  the  present  main  street.  It  passed 
through  Bordighera,  along  the  Strada  Romana  of  that 

208 


An  Old  Roman  Posting  Town 

town,  and  creeping  under  the  foot  of  the  Rochers  Rouges 
it  entered  Mentone.  It  crossed  the  little  torrent  of  St. 
Louis  close  to  the  beach  and  then  began  to  mount 
upwards.  Its  course  through  Mentone  is  indicated  by 
the  Rue  Longue.  Thence  it  ascended  to  the  Mont 
Justicier  and  so  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill  at  La  Turbie. 
Between  Mentone  and  La  Turbie  there  are  still  to  be 
found  traces  of  this  ancient  highway  which  have  been 
left  undisturbed  among  the  olive  woods. 

The  road  entered  La  Turbie  by  that  gate  which  is 
still  called  the  Portail  Romain,  made  its  way  through 
the  town  with  no  little  pomp  and  passed  out  by  the 
Portail  de  Nice  on  the  west.  It  now  crossed  the  present 
Grand  Corniche  road,  which  it  followed  for  a  while,  and 
then  dipped  pleasantly  into  the  valley  of  Laghet.  Leav- 
ing the  convent  on  its  right  it  turned  to  La  Trinite-Victor 
and  so  moved  onwards  until  it  reached  the  great  and 
important  Roman  city  of  Cimiez,  then  known  as 
Cemenelum.     Here  we  may  take  leave  of  it. 

On  this  venerable  highway  La  Turbie  occupied  a 
position  of  much  interest.  It  marked  the  highest 
point  attained  by  the  Via  Aureliana  in  its  long  journey. 
To  the  Romans  it  was  the  "Alpis  summa."  It 
stands  on  the  ridge  or  col  which  connects  Mont  Agel 
with  the  Tete  de  Chien  and  represents  the  summit  of 
the  pass  between  those  heights.  More  than  that — as  a 
landmark  visible  for  miles — it  pointed  out  to  the 
world  the  ancient  frontier  between  Italy  and  Gaul  and, 
in  later  years,  the  hne  that  divided  Provence  from 
Liguria. 

To  the  Roman  traveller  by  the  Aurelian  Way  La 
Turbie  was  a  place  of  some  significance.     It  was  a  goal 
o  209 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

to  be  attained.  When  once  the  weary  man  had  passed 
through  the  gate  of  Turbia  he  could  sit  himself  down 
on  a  cool  bench  in  its  shady  street,  wipe  his  brow,  loosen 
his  pack,  let  drop  his  staff  and  feel  that  the  worst  of  the 
journey  was  over.  He  had  crossed  the  frontier  into  Gaul 
and  was  almost  within  sight  of  the  comforting  city  of 
Cemenelum  of  which  old  travellers,  gossiping  in  the 
Forum,  had  told  so  much. 

La  Turbie  was  a  posting  town  that  marked  a  critical 
stage  in  the  journey  from  the  Eternal  City.  It  was  a 
place  of  great  bustle  and  commotion  in  the  spacious 
Roman  days,  for  companies,  large  or  small,  were  con- 
stantly arriving  or  leaving  and  whichever  way  they  went 
they  must  halt  at  the  col.  How  often  children  playing 
outside  the  gate  would  suddenly  rush  back  to  their 
mothers,  with  shrill  cries,  to  say  that  they  could  see  a 
party  winding  up  the  hill  towards  the  town !  How  often 
the  people  would  hurry  out  to  see  what  kind  of  folk 
they  were  and  to  guess  as  to  their  means  and  their 
needs ! 

Sometimes  it  would  be  a  body  of  Roman  soldiers, 
marching  in  rigid  column,  under  the  command  of  a 
dignified  centurion.  At  another  time  some  great 
patrician,  with  his  vast  retinue,  would  mount  up  to  the 
town.  He  would  grumble,  no  doubt,  at  the  steepness 
of  the  hill,  but  would  be  coaxed  by  the  bowing  governor 
to  come  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  and  look  down  upon 
Monaco  Bay  and  upon  the  glorious  line  of  coast  spread 
out  upon  either  side  of  it.  The  patrician  lady,  alighting 
from  her  litter,  would  thrill  the  little  place  with  curiosity 
and  excitement.  The  young  women  of  La  Turbie  would 
note  keenly  the  fashion  of  her  dress — the  last  new  mode 

2IO 


A   CORNER  IN    LA   TURBIE. 


An  Old  Roman  Posting  Town 

of  Rome — and  the  manner  in  which  her  hair  was  ' '  done  ' ' 
in  order  to  imitate  both  the  one  and  the  other  when  the 
grande  dame  had  swept  on  to  Aries.  The  suite  at  the 
patrician's  heels  would  be  accosted  by  the  gossips  of  La 
Turbie  and  by  the  young  men  about  town  eager  to  glean 
the  latest  news  from  the  great  city,  news  from  the  lips  of 
men  who  but  a  month  or  so  ago  had  strolled  about  the 
Forum  or  had  viewed  some  amazing  spectacle  from  the 
galleries  of  the  Coliseum. 

The  slaves,  who  led  the  pack-horses  and  carried  the 
litters,  would  chat  with  the  local  slaves  in  the  stables  and 
in  the  meaner  wine  shops  and  discuss  the  general  trend 
of  affairs  in  this  outcast,  deity-deserted  country  and  com- 
pare the  vices  of  their  respective  masters  and  the  meanness 
or  beauty  of  their  respective  ladies.  Even  the  dogs  in 
the  cavalcade  would  excite  the  interest  of  the  dogs  on 
the  hill.  One  may  imagine  the  supercilious  sniff  with 
which  the  dog  that  had  tramped  all  the  way  from  Rome 
would  regard  the  dog  stranded  on  this  bleak  col  and  the 
snarl  with  which  the  La  Turbie  dog — more  wolf  than 
dog — would  challenge  the  pampered  intruder. 

At  another  time  a  company  of  traders  would  pass 
through  the  town — strangely-garbed  men  speaking  an 
unknown  tongue  and  followed  by  a  train  of  mules  and 
donkeys  laden  with  bales  of  rare  stuffs  and  with  panniers 
filled  with  mysterious  and  glittering  things.  One  can  see 
the  pretty  girl  of  La  Turbie  coaxing  a  grey-bearded 
merchant  in  a  black  burnous  to  open  a  pannier  and  let 
her  have  a  peep  and  picture  the  staring  eyes  of  the  crowd 
that  would  hang  over  her  shoulder. 

On  another  day  a  troupe  of  Roman  dancing  girls 
would  trip  through  the  gate  with  a  ripple  of  bright  colour 

211 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

and  with  roguish  glances,  to  the  great  disturbance  of 
the  young  men  of  La  Turbie  who  would  be  too  shy  to 
speak  to  them,  too  unready  to  reply  to  their  city  banter 
and  too  conscious  of  their  own  gaucherie. 

On  occasion,  too,  a  party  of  gladiators  would  swagger 
along  on  their  way  to  the  arena  of  Cimiez,  splendid  men, 
perfect  in  form,  firm  of  foot,  alert  in  carriage  they 
would  swing  down  the  street  with  a  rhythmical  step 
and  would  be  followed  by  the  children  through  the 
gate  and  far  along  the  road,  and  followed,  too,  by  the 
eyes  of  every  young  woman  in  La  Turbie  who  could 
find  a  window  or  a  gap  on  the  wall  that  gave  a  view 
of  the  highway. 

The  main  street  of  the  town,  along  which  the  great 
road  bustled,  must  have  presented,  on  these  days  of 
coming  or  going,  a  scene  of  much  animation.  Here  were 
the  chief  inns  and  the  wine  booths,  the  little  local  shops, 
the  fruit  stalls,  the  cobbler's  vaulted  niche  where  sandals 
were  repaired,  the  cutler's  store  very  bright  with  bronze, 
the  houses  of  the  dealers  in  corn  and  fodder  and  most 
assuredly  some  begrimed  hut  where  an  old  crone  sold 
curiosities  and  souvenirs  of  the  place,  native  weapons  and 
ornaments,  a  hillman's  headdress,  strange  coins  dug  up 
outside  the  walls,  bright  pieces  of  ore  found  among  the 
mountains,  the  local  snake  in  a  bottle,  some  wolf's  teeth 
and  a  shell  or  two  from  Monaco  beach.  In  the  lesser 
streets  would  be  the  stables  for  the  pack-horses  and  the 
mules,  the  cellars  for  goods  in  transit,  the  hovels  for  the 
slaves,  the  moneylenders'  dens,  the  compounds  for  the 
soldiers  and  the  huts  of  the  wretched  wild-eyed  Ligurians 
who,  under  the  lash  of  their  masters,  did  the  mean  work 
of  the  town. 

212 


An  Old  Roman  Posting  Town 

La  Turbie  was  indeed  in  these  times  a  great  cara- 
vanserai, a  halting  place  on  the  march  of  civilisation,  a 
post  by  the  side  of  the  inscrutable  road  that  led  from  the 
wonder-teeming  East  to  the  dull,  una  wakened  land  of 
the  West,  a  road  that  carried  with  it  the  makings  of  a 
people  who  would  dominate  the  world  when  the  power 
and  the  glory  of  Rome  had  passed  away. 


213 


XXIX 

THE  TOWER  OF  VICTORY 

OF  Turbia  of  the  Roman  days  practically  no  trace 
exists  with  the  notable  exception  of  the  Great 
Monument  which  is  very  much  more  than  a  trace. 
After  the  Romans  went  away  La  Turbie — although  well 
stricken  in  years — was  subjected  to  that  pitiless  discipline 
which  straitened  and  embittered  the  younger  days  of 
every  town  along  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean.  Its 
history  differs  but  in  detail  from  the  early  history  of  Nice 
or  Eze,  or  of  Roquebrune.  The  Lombards  and  the 
Saracens  in  turn  fell  upon  it  like  wild  beasts  and  shook 
it  nearly  to  death.  It  was  burned  to  a  mere  heap  of 
cinders  and  stones.  It  was  looted  with  a  thoroughness 
that  not  even  a  modern  German  could  excel.  It  was 
besieged  and  taken  over  and  over  again.  At  one  time 
the  Guelphs  held  it  and  at  another  the  Ghibellines.  It 
was  bought  and  sold  and  had  as  many  successive  masters 
as  there  were  masters  to  have.  It  belonged  now  to  Genoa 
and  then  to  Ventimiglia,  now  to  Monaco  and  then  to 
Eze. 

Throughout  the  restless  Middle  Ages  it  was  a  small 
fortified  town  of  little  military  importance.  It  had  its 
circuit  of  walls  and  its  gates,  its  keep  and  its  battlements ; 
but,  at  its  best,  it  was  a  place  with  more  valour  than 

strength.     No  doubt  it  looked  sturdy  enough  on  the  top 

214 


The  Tower  of  Victory 

of  the  hill,  a  neat  compact  town  as  round  as  a  jar  with 
the  great  white  Roman  monument  erect  in  its  midst, 
like  a  dead  lily  in  a  stone  pot. 

During  the  intervals  when  it  was  not  being  looted 
or  burned  it  was  treated  with  some  dignity ;  for  when 
the  Counts  of  Provence  were  the  masters  of  La  Turbie 
they  nominated  a  chdtelain  or  governor  from  among  "  the 
first  gentlemen  of  Nice."  The  distinction  thus  conferred 
was  a  little  marred  by  the  fact  that  the  gentleman  was 
not  required  to  reside  in  the  town.  Gentlemen  with  very 
sonorous  names  and  connected  with  "  the  best  families  " 
were,  from  time  to  time,  nominated  for  this  post;  but 
they  do  not  seem  to  have  added  much  to  the  comfort  of 
the  place  as  a  residence.^ 

The  visitor  to  La  Turbie,  whether  he  arrives  by  the 
rack-and-pinion  railway  or  by  the  mule-path,  vdll  assuredly 
make  his  way  at  once  to  the  Belvedere  to  see  that  view 
which  has  moved  the  guide  books  to  such  unanimous 
rapture.  He  will  probably  be  met  on  his  way  by  a  man 
— very  foreign  in  appearance — who  will  wish  to  sell  him 
an  opera  glass  on  one  morning  and  a  square  of  carpet 
on  the  next.  He  will  also  come  upon  a  camera  obscura, 
set  up  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  prefer  to  see  through 
a  glass  darkly  and  who  would  sooner  view  a  scene  when 
reflected  on  a  white  table-cloth  in  a  dark  room  than  gaze 
upon  it  with  the  naked  eye. 

At  the  camera  obscura  kiosk  postcards  are  sold  to- 
gether with  articles  which  the  vendor  asserts  are  souvenirs 
and  mementoes  of  La  Turbie.  These  things  for  remem- 
brance are  hard  to  understand.  One  wonders  why  a 
polished    slate    inkstand    from    Paris,    a    mineral    from 

1  "  Chorographie  du  Comte  de  Nice,"  by  Louis  Durante,  1847. 

215 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

(possibly)  a  Cornish  mine,  a  sea-shell  from  the  tropics 
or  some  beads  from  Cairo  should  call  to  mind  a  mediaeval 
town  in  Provence  and  the  wars  of  the  Guelphs  and  the 
Ghibellines. 

When  the  pilgrim  in  his  progress  has  passed  both  the 
man  with  the  carpet  and  the  things  that  will  keep  green 
the  memory  of  La  Turbie  he  can  enjoy  the  view  that 
opens  out  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  It  is  a  view  that  not 
even  a  camera  obscura  can  enhance.  There  is  the  line  of 
coast  that  sweeps  from  Bordighera  on  the  east  to  the 
Esterels  on  the  west;  while  below,  as  a  bright  splash  of 
yellow,  white  and  red,  is  Monte  Carlo.  The  spectator 
looks  directly  down  upon  Monte  Carlo  as  he  would  view 
a  thing  on  the  pavement  from  the  top  of  a  tower.  It  is 
not  often  that  one  can  see  at  a  glance  an  entire  European 
state  from  frontier  to  frontier  and  from  seaboard  to 
hinterland;  but  here  is  laid  out  before  the  eye  every 
foot  of  the  principality  of  Monaco  as  complete  as  on 
a  map. 

Monte  Carlo  is  largely  a  display  of  roofs  among  which 
it  is  possible  to  pick  out  those  of  familiar  hotels  and 
those  of  the  villas  of  friends.  There  is  an  odd  sense  of 
indelicacy  about  the  bold  inspection  of  a  friend's  roof. 
There  is  nothing  indecent  about  a  roof  but  there  is  an 
impression  of  spying,  of  looking  down  the  chimneys  and 
of  taking  advantage  of  an  exceptional  position,  for  a  roof 
is  not  the  best  part  of  a  house  and  in  the  case  of  friends 
it  somehow  comes  into  the  category  of  things  that  you 
ought  not  to  see. 

The  most  precious  object  in  La  Turbie  is  the  Monu- 
ment, although  it  is  now  in  a  state  of  woeful  decay.  It 
stands  in  a  dismal  waste  where  clothes  are  spread  out 

216 


H 

o 

ai 
,Q 

OS 


en 

O 
Q 
Z 


Q 

O 

a 
n 

OS 

D 
H 


The  Tower  of  Victory 

to  dry  and  where  fowls  wander  about  scratching,  as  if 
searching  for  Roman  remains.  It  is  surrounded  by  houses 
which  appear  to  have  contracted  the  leprous  complaint 
which  has  attacked  the  great  trophy.  As  a  monument 
of  melancholy  it  is  not  to  be  surpassed.  As  a  place  of 
dreariness  the  spot  where  it  is  found  can  hardly  be  ex- 
ceeded in  pathos.  It  needs  only  the  solitary  figure  of 
Job,  sitting  on  a  broken  column  with  his  face  buried  in 
his  hands,  to  complete  the  picture  of  its  desolation. 

The  monument  was  erected,  or  was  at  least  completed, 
in  the  year  B.C.  6.  It  was  raised  by  the  Roman  senate 
to  commemorate  the  victories  of  the  Emperor  Augustus 
over  the  tribes  of  southern  Gaul  and  to  record  the  final 
conquest  of  that  tract  of  country.  It  was  a  colossal  struc- 
ture of  supreme  magnificence  that  took  the  form  of  a 
lofty  tower  very  richly  ornamented.  It  stood  upon  a 
square  base  formed  of  massive  blocks  of  stone  which  are 
still  in  place,  for  none  but  an  uncommon  power  could 
ever  move  them.  The  tower  itself  was  circular  and  en- 
cased in  marble  upon  which,  in  letters  of  gold,  was  en- 
graved an  inscription,  "  IMPERATORI  •  C^SARI  • 
DIVI  FILIO  AUGUSTO  PONT  MAX  IMP  • 
XIV  TRIE  POT  XVII  S.P.Q.R."  These  words, 
which  suggest  a  form  of  shorthand  or  a  crude  telegraphic 
code,  were  followed  by  an  account  of  the  Emperor's 
triumph  and  the  names  of  the  forty-five  Alpine  tribes 
that  he  had  conquered.  Of  this  imposing  inscription 
nothing  now  remains.  It  is  replaced  by  the  feeble  initials 
of  sundry  shopboys  from  neighbouring  towns,  cut  with 
penknives  in  the  presence  of  their  admiring  ladies. 

About  this  tower  was  a  round  colonnade  and  above 
it  another  circle  of  pillars  with  statues;   while  on  the 

217 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

summit  was  a  colossal  effigy  of  the  victorious  emperor, 
eighteen  feet  or  more  in  height.  The  whole  was  a  stupen- 
dous work  worthy  of  the  amazing  people  who  built  it. 
It  is  now  a  shapeless  pile  as  devoid  of  art  as  a  crag  on 
a  mountain  top.  But  it  is  still  impressive  by  its  over- 
whelming height,  by  its  massiveness,  and  its  suggestion 
of  determined  strength.  High  up  on  one  side  are  two 
columns  recently  put  in  place,  which  show  how  an  arcade 
once  circled  around  it;  but,  apart  from  this,  the  whole 
mass  looks  more  rock-like  and  more  supremely  simple 
than  any  work  of  man.  Everything  that  made  it  beauti- 
ful in  substance  and  human  in  spirit  is  gone — the  colon- 
nades, the  statues,  the  capitals,  the  friezes  and  the  carved 
trophies  of  arms.* 

The  destruction  of  this  exquisite  fabric  commenced 
early  and  was  pursued  through  successive  centuries  with 
peculiar  pertinacity.  As  has  been  already  said  La  Turbie, 
throughout  its  long  career,  was  the  subject  of  many  on- 
slaughts. No  matter  what  may  have  been  the  purpose 
of  the  attacking  party  or  their  nationality  they  did  not 
leave  the  town  until  they  had  devoted  some  time  to  the 
annihilation  of  the  tower  of  Augustus.  To  contribute 
something  to  the  breaking  up  of  this  monument  seems 
to  have  been  an  obligation,  a  rite  imposed  upon  ever>' 
invading  force,  a  local  custom  that  could  not  be  ignored. 
The  Lombards  appear  to  have  commenced  the  work  with 
great  spirit  and  heartiness  but  with  limited  means.  Then 
the  Saracens  came  and  took  bolder  measures,  but  measures 
founded  upon  imperfect  scientific  knowledge,  for  they 
attempted  to  destroy  this  tower  of  victory  with  fire.  The 
Guelphs  and  the  Ghibellines,  during  their  intermittent 

'  A  further  account  of  the  trophy  is  given  in  the  chapter  which  follows. 

2i8 


The  Tower  of  Victory 

occupation  of  La  Turbie,  built  a  fort  with  stones  obtained 
from  the  edifice.  It  was  a  strong  fort  in  the  making  of 
which  much  material  was  employed  and  the  trophy 
became  a  watch  tower. 

As  the  knowledge  of  destructive  processes  improved 
more  powerful  steps  were  taken  to  uproot  the  tower.  It 
was  undermined  and  attempts  were  made  to  blow  it  up. 
These  efforts  were  attended  with  some  results;  but  the 
monument  still  stands.  Finally,  about  the  beginning  of 
the  eighteenth  century  a  very  determined  attempt  was 
made  by  the  French  to  clear  this  arrogant  pile  from  off 
the  face  of  the  earth.  The  work  of  destruction  was  en- 
trusted to  the  Marechal  de  Villars  and  there  is  no  doubt 
that  he  did  his  best ;  but  the  monument  still  stands. 

Quite  apart  from  these  periodic  assaults  the  monument 
was,  from  the  earliest  days,  regarded  as  a  quarry  and  was 
worked  with  regularity  and  persistence  age  after  age.  In 
the  twelfth  century  by  permission  of  the  Lords  of  Eze  the 
marble — or  what  remained  of  it — was  stripped  from  the 
walls  by  the  Genoese  and  was  carried  away  to  decorate 
their  palaces  and  their  shrines,  to  build  cool  courts,  to 
form  terraces  in  gardens,  to  furnish  the  pillars  for  a 
pergola  or  the  basin  for  a  well.  The  marble  of  the  high 
altar  in  the  old  cathedral  of  Nice  came  from  the  Roman 
monument.  The  present  town  of  La  Turbie  is  built  in 
great  extent  from  the  ruins  of  this  tower  of  victory ;  while 
all  over  the  country  pieces  of  stone,  worked  by  the 
Romans  in  the  year  B.C.  6,  .will  be  found  in  villas,  in 
cottage  walls,  in  motor  garages,  and  in  goat  sheds.  And 
yet  the  monument  still  stands.  This  is  the  feature  about 
it  that  inspires  the  greatest  wonder,  this  feature  of  deter- 
mined immortality;  for  it  w^ould  seem  that  so  long  as 

219 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

the  world  endures  the  pillar  of  victory  will  crown  the 
everlasting  hill. 

It  has  been  battered  and  worn  by  the  wind,  the  hail 
and  the  rain  of  nearly  two  thousand  years.  It  has  been 
gnawed  at  by  snow  and  bitten  by  frost.  It  has  been 
slashed  by  lightning  and  shaken  by  earthquake.  It  has 
been  shattered  by  hammers  and  picks,  has  been  torn 
asunder  by  crowbars,  cracked  with  fire  and  rent  by  gun- 
powder, but  still  it  stands  and  still  it  will  stand  to  the 
end  of  time. 

That  this  ruinous  old  tower  should  have  become,  in 
early  days,  a  thing  of  myths  and  mysteries  can  be  no 
matter  of  surprise.  That  its  colonnade  was  haunted,  that 
its  black  hollows  were  the  abode  of  a  god  and  that  its 
statues  spoke  in  the  local  tongue  was  the  belief  of  genera- 
tions. That  it  was  a  place  to  fear  and  to  be  avoided 
at  night  was  a  maxim  impressed  upon  every  boy  and 
girl  as  soon  as  they  had  ears  to  hear  and  feet  that  could 
flee. 

The  most  remarkable  quality  of  the  trophy  was  the 
intimate  knowledge  of  a  certain  kind  that  it  was  reputed 
to  possess.  Owing  to  this  attribute  it  became  an  oracle. 
One  of  the  statues — that  of  a  god — could  speak  and  was 
prepared  (under  conditions)  to  reply  to  appropriate 
questions.  It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  tower  of 
the  Emperor  Augustus  became  a  mere  inquiry  office.  It 
specialised  in  knowledge  and  the  deity  who  presided  would 
deal  only  with  matters  that  came  within  the  province 
of  this  particular  phase  of  wisdom. 

One  might  hazard  the  guess  that  the  fullest  informa- 
tion that  the  monument  had  acquired  during  its  many 
years  of  life  would  relate  to  assault  and  battery,  and,  in 

220 


The  Tower  of  Victory 

a  less  exhaustive  degree,  to  battle,  murder  and  sudden 
death.  On  all  questions  relating  to  violence  as  displayed 
by  man  it  could  claim  to  speak  as  an  expert.  It  is  curious, 
however,  that  on  this  subject  the  speaking  statue  was 
silent.  It  professed  to  have  a  knowledge  of  one  thing 
and  one  thing  only  and  that  was  not  violence  but  human 
love.  But  even  in  this  branch  of  learning  it  specialised 
for  it  dealt  exclusively  with  but  a  phase  of  the  subject — 
the  constancy  and  sincerity  of  women. 

The  broken  colonnade  was  no  doubt  a  favourite  resort 
for  lovers  and  a  listening  statue  could  learn  much  as  to 
the  value  of  vows  and  would  gain,  during  a  life  of 
centuries,  experience  on  the  topic  of  women's  fidelity. 
It  was  upon  this  occult,  most  difficult  and  complex  sub- 
ject that  the  oracle  had  the  courage  to  speak. 

It  thus  came  to  pass  that  doubting  husbands  were  in 
the  habit  of  repairing  to  La  Turbie  in  order  to  ask  per- 
sonal and  searching  questions  about  their  wives.  How 
the  oracle  was  "worked"  is  not  known.  That  it  was 
susceptible  to  influences  which  still  have  a  place  in  human 
affairs  is  very  probable.  Light  is  thrown  upon  the 
methods  of  the  oracle  by  the  writings  of  one  Raymond 
Feraud,  a  troubadour,  who  in  the  thirteenth  century 
composed  a  poem  on  this  very  subject.^  The  morality 
revealed  by  the  writer — it  may  be  said — belongs  to  that 
century,  not  to  this. 

It  appears  from  the  troubadour's  account  that  Count 
Aymes,  a  prince  of  Narbonne,  was  a  jealous  man  and 
probably,  as  a  husband,  very  tiresome.  He  had  some 
doubts  as  to  the  fidelity  of  his  wafe  Tiburge  and  one  day 
alarmed  this  cheerful  lady  by  announcing  that  he  pro- 

*  "  Mon  Pays,  etc.,"  by  D.  Durandy. 
221 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

posed  to  drag  her  to  La  Turbie  and  to  ask  the  stone  deity 
certain  pertinent  questions  as  to  her  recent  behaviour. 
Tiburge  was  a  lady  of  resource  and  before  the  inquiry 
at  La  Turbie  took  place  she  started  for  the  Lerin  Islands 
and  sought  an  interview  with  no  less  a  personage  than 
St.  Honorat.  What  exactly  took  place  between  the  saint 
and  the  light-hearted  lady,  during  the  meeting,  the 
troubadour  does  not  say.  Anyhow  Tiburge  made  such 
confessions  to  St.  Honorat  as  she  thought  fit,  with  the 
result  that  the  saint  absolved  her,  cheered  her  up,  called 
her  "  chere  fiUe  "  and  assured  her  that  all  would  be  well. 
To  make  matters  more  certain  St.  Honorat  gave  her  the 
lappet  of  his  hood  and  told  her  to  wear  it  on  her  head 
during  the  anxious  inquiry  at  La  Turbie.  He  assured 
her  that  with  this  piece  of  cloth  on  her  pretty  hair  the 
"  idole  "  would  not  dare  to  make  any  offensive  observa- 
tions. Furnished  with  this  unfashionable  head-dress  the 
countess,  cheerful  to  the  extent  of  giggling,  joined  her 
morose  husband  and  toiled  up  to  La  Turbie. 

The  Count  Aymes  asked  the  "  idole  "  a  number  of 
most  unpleasant  questions  which  might  have  been  very 
trying  to  the  lady  had  she  not  been  comforted  by  the 
brown  rag  on  her  head.  The  answers  of  the  oracle — 
awaited  with  anxiety  by  the  husband  and  with  a  smile 
by  the  lady — were  very  reassuring.  Indeed  the  "  idole  " 
gave  the  lady  a  kind  of  testimonial  and  a  certificate  of 
character  that  was,  under  the  circumstances,  almost  too 
florid.  He  said  she  was  a  dame  de  grand  merite  and 
treated  the  count's  innuendoes  as  unworthy  of  a  consort 
and  as  reprehensible  when  applied  to  a  woman  of  blame- 
less life.  He  added  that  a  lady  whose  head  was  covered 
by  a  vestment  belonging  to  so  sainted  a  man  as  St. 

222 


The  Tower  of  Victory 

Honorat  must  be  above  reproach.  His  manner  of  deal- 
ing with  this  delicate  affair  suggests  to  the  vulgar  mind 
that  there  must  have  been  some  collusion  between  the 
recluse  on  the  island  and  the  *'  idole  "  in  this  dilapidated 
old  tower. 

Anyhow  the  count  and  the  countess  returned  home 
in  the  best  of  spirits  and  one  may  assume  that  on  the 
way  she  said  more  than  once  "  I  told  you  so."  When 
he  asked  "  Why  don't  you  throw  that  beastly  bit  of  old 
cloth  away?  "  she  would  reply  "  Oh !  I  think  I  will  keep 
it.     I  may  want  to  use  it  again.' 


55 


223 


XXX 

LA    TURBIE    OF    TO-DAY 

I  A  TURBIE  is  a  little  compact  town  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  Its  narrow  streets  are  disposed  as  they  have 
been  for  centuries.  It  is  entered  by  five  gates. 
It  has  no  straggling  suburbs.  It  is  complete  in  its  tiny 
way  and  captain  of  itself.  It  lies  enveloped  by  its  walls, 
a  warm,  living  thing  whose  heart  has  beaten  within  these 
encircling  arms  for  over  2,000  years.  It  is  quiet,  for  the 
world  has  left  it  alone.  It  stands  by  the  side  of  the  Great 
Corniche  Road,  but  those  who  pass  by  in  an  eddy  of  dust 
heed  it  not.  One  might  walk  through  it  many  times, 
from  gate  to  gate,  without  meeting  a  living  creature. 

Yet  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  which  La  Turbie  stands 
is  Monte  Carlo,  the  most  modern  of  modern  abodes  of 
men.  A  town  without  walls,  lying  scattered  in  all 
directions  like  a  great  drop  of  bright  paint  that  has  fallen 
on  a  rock  and  spattered  it.  Here  are  the  hubbub  of 
Vanity  Fair,  the  frou-frou  of  silks,  the  flash  of  bold 
pigments,  the  scent-tainted  air. 

Let  such  as  are  tired  of  this  Vanity  Fair  and  of  its 

make-believe  palaces,  climb  up  to  the  hill  town.     As  they 

pass  through  the  old  gateway  they  enter  into  a  world  that 

was,  into  a  town  where  the  streets  are  silent  and  the 

houses  homely  and  venerable.      The  blaze  of  clashing 

colours  is  forgotten,   for  all  here  is  grey.      The  bold, 

224 


LA   TURBIE:    THE   OLD   BAKEHOUSE. 


La  Turbie  of  To-day 

imperious  purple  of  the  sea  is  changed  for  the  tender 
forget-me-not  blue  of  a  strip  of  sky  above  the  roofs. 
The  dazzle  of  the  sun  is  beyond  the  gate,  but  within  are 
shadows  as  comforting  as  "  the  shadow  of  a  rock  in  a 
weary  land."  Such  light  as  enters  falls  upon  an  old 
lichen-covered  wall,  upon  the  arch  of  a  Gothic  window 
and  upon  simple  things  on  balconies — a  garment  hanging 
to  dry,  a  bird-cage,  a  pot  of  lavender.  To  those  who 
are  surfeited  with  riot  and  unreality  La  Turbie  is  a  cloister, 
a  place  of  peace. 

Outside  the  town,  on  the  east,  is  the  Cours  St. 
Bernard,  so  named  after  an  ancient  chapel  to  St.  Bernard 
which  stood  here.  The  town  is  entered  by  the  gate  called 
the  Roman  Gate,  for  it  was  by  this  way  that  the  Roman 
road  passed  into  La  Turbie.  The  gate,  which  dates  from 
the  Middle  Ages,  has  a  plain,  pointed  arch  and  over  it 
the  remains  of  a  tower.  The  old  road  passed  through 
the  town  from  east  to  west  along  the  line  of  the  present 
Rue  Droite  and  left  it  by  the  Nice  Gate  which  has  also 
a  pointed  arch  and  a  tower  and  which  belongs  to  the 
same  period  as  the  Portail  Romain.  There  are  some 
fine  old  houses,  strangely  mutilated,  in  the  Rue  Droite 
and  one  elegant  window  of  three  arches  supported  by 
dainty  columns.  This  pertains  to  a  house  at  the  corner 
of  the  Rue  du  Four. 

The  Rue  du  Four,  or  Bakehouse  Street,  enters  the 
town  from  the  Corniche  Road  by  a  modern  gate  passing 
under  the  houses.  In  this  street  is  the  ancient  public 
bakehouse,  a  queer,  little  building,  low  and  square,  with 
a  tiled  roof  and  on  the  roof  a  very  solid  cross  cut  out  of 
a  block  of  stone.  Within  the  building  the  ovens  are  still 
to  be  seen.     M.  PhiUppe  Casimir,  the  learned  mayor  of 

p  225 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

La  Turbie,  in  his  very  interesting  monograph^  states  that 
in  old  days  the  inhabitants  paid  to  the  Lord  of  La  Turbie 
un  droit  de  foiirnage  for  the  privilege  of  using  the  bake- 
house. The  impost  took  the  form  of  one  loaf  out  of 
every  eighty.  This  mediaeval  four  became  in  time  the 
property  of  the  town,  but  its  use  has  now  been  long 
abandoned. 

The  Rue  du  Four  leads  to  the  Place  Saint- Jean,  the 
centre  of  the  town.  It  is  a  very  tiny  place — little  more 
than  a  courtyard — which  derives  its  name  from  the  chapel 
of  St.  Jean  which  stands  here.  The  chapel  has  been 
recently  rebuilt  (1844)  and  is  of  no  interest.  In  the  place 
is  a  large  and  still  imposing  house  which  was  the  old 
Hotel  de  Ville.  Passing  beneath  it  is  a  vaulted  passage 
of  some  solemnity  which  leads  to  the  gate  known  as  the 
Portail  du  Recinto.  The  arch  at  the  entrance  of  this 
vaulted  way  has  a  curious  history.  It  was  composed  of 
blocks  of  marble  taken  from  the  monument  and  from 
that  frieze  of  the  trophy  which  bore  the  inscription.  The 
great  bulk  of  the  inscribed  stones  had  been  removed  to 
the  museum  at  St.-Germain-en-Laye,  but  it  was  found 
that  the  wording  was  incomplete.  Some  letters  from 
the  list  of  the  conquered  tribes  were  missing.  An 
archaeologist  chancing  to  visit  La  Turbie  in  1867  noticed 
on  the  voussoirs  of  this  arch  the  very  letters  that  were 
wanting. 

The  pieces  of  marble  were  therefore  removed  to 
complete  the  inscription  in  the  museum  and  their  place 
was  taken  by  common  stones.  To  compensate  La  Turbie 
for  this  loss  the  Emperor,  Napoleon  III,  presented  to  the 
church  of  St.  Michael  a  copy  of  RaphaeFs  "  St.  Michael '' 

1  "  La  Turbie  et  son  Trophde  Romain,"  Nice,  1914. 

226 


U    CD 


ai 
O  ? 


^ 

<: 


u^ 


O 

Pi 


<  en 


H 
H 

03 

H 
OS 
O 
Qu 


n 
as 
D 
H 

<: 


La  Turbie  of  To-day 

from  the  Louvre  in  Paris.  This  picture  now  hangs  on  the 
left  wall  of  the  church  near  to  the  entrance. 

The  vaulted  passage  under  the  old  Hotel  de  Ville  leads 
to  a  square  called  the  Place  Mitto.  This  piazza  is,  I 
imagine,  the  smallest  public  square  in  existence,  for  it  is 
no  larger  than  the  kitchen  area  of  a  London  house.  In 
it  is  the  most  beautiful  gate  of  La  Turbie.  It  has  a 
pointed  arch  and  above  it  a  low  tower  with  three 
machicolations.  The  gate  is  called  the  Portail  du  Recinto 
— a  mixture  of  French  and  Italian — which  signifies  the 
gate  in  the  enceinte  or  main  wall.  It  opens  directly  upon 
the  Roman  monument. 

In  order  to  appreciate  the  significance  of  this  gate  it 
is  necessary  to  refer  once  more  to  the  history  of  the  great 
trophy.  Some  time  in  the  thirteenth  or  fourteenth 
century  the  site  of  the  monument  was  converted  into  a 
fort.  The  trophy  itself  was  stripped  of  all  its  original 
features  and  was  built  up  in  the  form  of  a  round  and 
lofty  watch  tower.  It  was  ornamented  at  its  summit  by 
two  rows  of  arcading.  These  are  still  to  be  seen  and  on 
the  parapet  will  be  observed  three  upright  pieces  of  stone 
which  are  the  remains  of  the  crenellations  or  battlements 
with  which  the  tower  was  surmounted.  These  details, 
which  belong  to  the  centuries  named,  are  shown  in  ancient 
prints.  The  ruin,  therefore,  now  existing  is  the  ruin 
rather  of  the  mediaeval  tower  than  of  the  original  Roman 
monument.  The  persistent  attempts  to  destroy  the  tower 
of  La  Turbie  were  due,  in  the  first  place,  to  the  fact  that 
it  represented  oppression  and  an  arrogant  claim  to  victory, 
and,  in  later  years,  to  the  fact  that  it  was  part  of  a 
fortress. 

About  the  base  of  the  great  watch  tower  was  a  square 

227 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

and  solid  keep,  of  which  no  trace  remains  and,  beyond 
that,  a  great  semicircular  wall  with  its  back  to  the  town. 
This  wall  shut  in  the  stronghold  on  the  north  and  was 
terminated  at  the  cliff's  edge  by  a  pair  of  towers.  Now 
the  Portail  du  Recinto  was  the  gateway  that  pierced  this 
encircling  wall  or  enceinte  and  through  it,  and  through  it 
alone,  could  access  to  the  fort  be  attained. 

To  the  right  of  the  gate  is  a  narrow  street,  the  Rue 
Capouanne.  It  is  curved  because  it  follows  the  line  of 
the  enceinte  and  is,  indeed,  a  passage  between  the  actual 
fortress  wall  on  one  side  and  houses  on  the  other.  This 
mighty  thirteenth  century  wall  is  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing relics  in  La  Turbie.  It  has  been  cut  into,  here  and 
there,  to  make  stables,  but  it  is  still  a  great  wall  presenting 
many  huge  blocks  of  stone  which  show  that  it  was  con- 
structed from  the  fabric  of  the  monument.  The  Rue 
Capouanne  ends  in  a  modest  little  gate  with  a  pointed 
arch  green  with  ferns.  This  gate,  called  La  Portette, 
gave  access  to  the  old  church  which  stood  near  the  west 
corner  of  the  present  cemetery  and,  therefore,  above  the 
level  of  the  existing  church.  La  Portette  is  shown  in  the 
old  prints  of  La  Turbie.  Beyond  La  Portette  and  a 
modern  house  which  joins  it  the  great  enceinte  or  fortress 
wall  is  continued  for  a  little  way  as  a  curved  but  isolated 
line  of  masonry.  Between  this  isolated  fragment  and  the 
main  wall  there  is  a  wide  gap.  This  was  cut  about  1764 
in  order  to  obtain  direct  access  to  the  monument 
for  the  purpose  of  the  building  of  the  church,  which 
was  constructed  out  of  stones  derived  from  the 
monument. 

M.   Casimir  gives  an  interesting  explanation  of  the 

curious    name.     Rue    Capouanne.      It    was    originally 

228 


LA   TURBIE:    THE    NICE    GATE. 


La  Turbie  of  To-day 

Gapeani  and  it  is  easy  to  understand  how  the  G  has 
changed  to  a  C.  In  1332  La  Turbie  obtained  local 
independence,  was  allowed  to  manage  its  own  urban  affairs 
and  to  appoint  a  hayle,  governor  or  mayor.  The  first 
hayle  was  one  Jacques  Gapeani  and  it  is  in  his  honour 
that  the  street  was  named.  Humble  as  the  lane  may 
be  it  can  at  least  claim  an  ancestry  of  nearly  six  hundred 
years. 

Between  the  Place  St.  Jean  and  the  Portail  du  Recinto 
is  a  narrow  and  gloomy  way  called  the  Rue  du  Ghetto. 
The  name  serves  to  recall  the  fact  that  during  the 
troublous  times  of  the  Middle  Ages  Jews  sought  refuge 
in  this  hill  town  and  security  in  the  shadow  of  its  fortress. 
The  street  is  of  interest  on  another  account.  During  the 
Terror  the  monks  of  the  monastery  of  Laghet  were  in 
fear  for  the  safety  of  their  much  revered  image  of  the 
Madonna.  So  in  the  dead  of  night  they  carried  it  up 
to  La  Turbie  and  hid  it  in  a  house  in  the  Rue  du  Ghetto. 
The  house  was  occupied  by  a  pious  man  named  Denis 
Lazare.^  It  is  the  first  house  in  the  street  on  the  left 
hand  side  and  high  up  between  the  first  and  second  floors 
is  an  empty  niche  by  means  of  which  the  house  can  be 
identified.  At  the  moment  the  house  is  unoccupied.  It 
is  very  small.  A  narrow  stone  stair  leads  up  tathe  living 
room  which  takes  up  the  whole  of  the  first  story.  It  is 
a  room  that  has  probably  been  altered  little  since  1793. 
There  are  the  ancient  fireplace,  the  massive  beams  in  the 
ceiling  and,  by  the  hearth,  a  curious  trough  or  basin 
fashioned  out  of  a  block  of  stone.  So  cramped  is  the 
house  that  it  is  hard  to  imagine  where  the  Madonna  was 
hidden,  unless  in  the  stable  which  opens  on  the  street 

1  "  La  Turbie,"  by  Philippe  Casimir,  Nice,  1914. 

229 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

and  constitutes  the  ground  floor  of  the  humble  little 
dweUing. 

The  church  of  La  Turbie  is  very  simple  and  modest, 
subdued  in  its  decoration  and  in  keeping  with  its  place. 
It  has  a  steeple  whose  summit  is  shaped  like  a  bishop's 
mitre  and  is  covered  with  brilliant  tiles  which  are  very 
glorious  in  the  sun.  An  inscription  in  the  nave  shows 
that  the  building  was  commenced  in  1764  and  completed 
in  1777,  that  it  was  constructed  out  of  material  from  the 
monument  and  was  erected  by  the  hands  of  the  people 
themselves. 

There  are  in  the  town  the  remains  of  fine  houses  solidly 
built  of  stone  but  now  turned  into  humble  dwellings. 
One  such  house  is  conspicuous  in  the  Rue  de  I'Eglise. 
The  type  of  house  that  is  most  characteristic  of  La  Turbie 
has  the  following  features.  It  is  narrow.  Its  ground 
floor  is  occupied  by  a  deep  recess  in  the  shadow  of  a 
wide  rounded  arch  upon  which  the  front  wall  of  the 
building  is  founded.  Within  the  recess  on  one  side  is  a 
door  leading  to  a  stable  and  on  the  other  a  stone  stair 
which  mounts  up  to  the  entry  into  the  house. 

There  is  one  street  with  a  name  that  always  excites 
curiosity — the  Rue  Incalat.  M.  Casimir  states  that  the 
term  ' '  incalat ' '  indicates  a  paved  way  that  is  steep  and 
it  is  to  be  noted  that  the  Rue  Incalat  is  the  only  street 
in  La  Turbie  that  can  make  any  claim  to  be  steep. 


230 


XXXI 

THE    CONVENT    OF    LAGHET 

FROM  the  old  Roman  town  of  La  Turbie  a  road 
dips  down  into  a  lonely  valley  and  is  soon  lost  to 
view.  It  is  an  unfriendly  highway  that  appears 
to  turn  its  face  from  the  world  as  if  to  hide  among  the 
ascetic  hills.  There  are  few  signs  of  human  life  to  make 
the  road  companionable,  while  a  row  of  cypresses  on  either 
side  seem  to  impose  upon  it  a  reverential  silence. 

At  the  end  of  the  valley  a  great  monastic  building 
appears,  with  the  figure  of  the  Virgin  raised  aloft  on  its 
summit.  It  is  an  unexpected  thing  to  come  upon  in  this 
solitude ;  it  is  so  immense,  so  aggressive  looking,  so 
modern,  so  like  a  great  barrack.  Its  walls  are  of  fawn- 
coloured  plaster,  its  roof  of  rounded  tiles  of  every  gracious 
tint  of  brown.  Its  windows  would  appear  to  have  been 
inserted  as  occasion  required,  without  regard  to  any 
definite  design.  Some  are  in  arched  recesses;  many  are 
no  more  than  the  simple  square  windows  of  a  cottage, 
while  a  few  are  like  the  lattice  of  a  prison  cell.  It  has 
a  fine  bell  tower,  with  a  clock,  surmounted  by  a  dome 
on  the  crest  of  which  is  the  figure  of  Our  Lady  of  Laghet. 
The  building  stands  on  a  projecting  rock  and  is  approached 
by  a  bridge  over  a  puny  torrent. 

Wedged  uncomfortably  in  the  gorge  above  the  bridge 
is  a  dun  hamlet  that  seems  to  be  trying  to  efface  itself. 

231 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

It  is  an  apologetic  little  place,  standing  in  apparent  awe 
of  the  great  monastery  which  it  scarcely  dares  to  approach. 
The  huddled  houses,  hiding  one  behind  the  other,  are  like 
a  cluster  of  shy  children  before  a  schoolmaster's  door. 

Various  bolder  and  immodest  objects,  however,  have 
thrust  themselves  between  the  timid  village  and  the 
monastery.  These  are  certain  self-confident  restaurants, 
a  stable  of  almost  offensive  size,  together  with  many  booths 
and  stalls,  all  deserted  it  is  true,  but  still  very  assertive 
and  unseemly.  In  the  little  square  before  the  convent 
door  are  a  bazaar  where  postcards  and  souvenirs  are  sold, 
a  cafe,  and  an  old  fountain  in  a  niche  of  the  wall. 
Looking  down  upon  the  water  in  the  basin  of  stone  is 
a  graceful  figure  of  the  Virgin.  The  fountain,  recently 
restored,  is  said  to  have  been  erected  in  1706.  Mr.  Hare^ 
gives  the  following  translation  of  an  inscription  it  bears  : — 

"Pilgrim,  you  find  here  two  streams;  one  descends 
from  heaven,  the  other  from  the  top  of  the  mountains. 
The  first  is  a  treasure  which  the  Virgin  distributes  to  the 
piety  of  the  faithful,  the  second  has  been  brought  here 
by  the  people  of  Nice;  drink  of  both,  if  you  thirst  for 
both." 

No  living  creatures  are  in  sight,  except  two  children 
who  are  playing  on  the  bridge.  In  answer  to  a  question 
they  state  that  the  booths  and  other  unclerical  objects  are 
for  the  pilgrims  of  whom  they  speak  with  pride.  The 
pilgrims,  it  appears,  do  not  come  regularly.  They  do  not 
come  in  ones  and  twos  in  the  guise  of  weary  men  limping 
on  staffs.  They  come  on  occasions  and  in  thousands, 
arriving  in  char-a-bancs,  in  motors,  in  omnibuses,  in  gigs, 
in  farm  carts,  on  horses,  on  donkeys,  on  bicycles  and  on 

»  "  The  Rivieras,"  by  Augustus  J.  Hare,  London,  1897,  p.  80. 

232 


'ASS 


L^^Jl 


The  Convent  of  Laghet 

foot,  a  crowd  of  cheerful  men  and  women  dressed  in  their 
best.  A  photograph  of  one  such  pilgrimage  day — ex- 
hibited as  a  postcard — shows  the  single  highway  of  Laghet 
as  packed  with  people  as  any  part  of  the  racecourse  at 
Epsom,  with  people  too  somewhat  of  the  type  that  is 
found  at  such  a  gathering.  Incongruous  as  the  crowd 
may  be  it  is  moved  by  a  fine  and  estimable  spirit  much 
to  be  respected.  People  journey  to  Laghet  from  far  and 
near  to  return  thanks  to  Our  Lady  for  preservation  from 
accident,  for  recovery  from  disease,  for  escape  from 
trouble ;  while  yet  a  greater  number  come  to  place  them- 
selves under  the  protection  of  the  revered  image  which 
has  made  this  quiet  glen  so  famous. 

It  is  said  that  the  church  of  the  monastery  stands  upon 
the  site  of  a  little  ancient  chapel;  that  the  new  church 
was  inaugurated  in  1656  and  that  the  barefooted  Car- 
melites were  established  here  in  1674.  Miracles  in  the 
matter  of  recovery  from  sickness  or  of  escape  from  dire 
mishap  commenced  in  1652,  when  the  little  old  ruined 
chapel  was  still  standing.  From  that  moment  the 
sanctuary  in  this  remote  and  desolate  valley  was  much 
sought  after.  Eminent  personages  made  their  way  to 
Laghet  and  among  those  who  came  to  offer  homage  were 
Charles  Emmanuel  II,  Victor  Amedee  and  his  wife,  Anne 
of  Orleans.  Since  then  the  crowd  of  pilgrims  has  in- 
creased year  by  year  so  that  on  the  great  festa  of  Laghet, 
on  Trinity  Sunday,  the  little  place  is  submerged  by  an 
overwhelming  throng. 

The  monastery  is  entered  through  a  portal  of  three 
arches  which  leads  at  once  into  a  cloister  whose  walls  are 
covered  by  ex-voto  pictures.  These  pictures  are  small, 
being,  as  a  rule,  from  one  to  two  feet  square.    They  date 

233 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

from  various  periods ;  one  of  the  oldest  being  ascribed  to 
the  year  1793.  The  majority  belong,  however,  to  the 
nineteenth  century.  Not  a  few  are  so  faded  as  to  be 
scarcely  discernible.  Beneath  each  picture  is  a  brief 
account  of  the  incident  portrayed,  a  large  proportion  of 
the  descriptions  being  in  Italian.  Two  or  three  out  of 
the  vast  collection — which  includes  many  hundreds — 
possess  some  artistic  merit ;  but  the  mass  are  crude 
productions  as  simple  as  the  drawings  of  a  child  and  as 
regardless  of  perspective  and  as  lavish  in  colour  as  the 
signboard  of  a  village  inn,  while  a  few  show  but  a  little 
advance  upon  the  more  earnest  sketches  in  a  prehistoric 
cave. 

They  deal  with  accidents  and  misfortunes  from  which 
the  subject  of  the  picture  has  escaped  through  the  inter- 
vention of  the  sweet-faced  Madonna  of  Laghet.  The 
impression  left  by  the  gallery  is  that  the  dwellers  in  this 
corner  of  Europe  are  peculiarly  liable  to  fall  from  the 
roofs  or  windows  of  houses,  to  slip  over  precipices,  to 
drop  into  wells,  to  catch  on  fire  or  to  find  themselves 
under  the  wheels  of  carriages  and  wagons.  Indeed  it  is 
a  matter  for  marvel  that  they  have  not  become  extinct. 
It  is  a  gallery  that  might  suitably  deck  the  walls  of  a 
coroner's  court,  the  corridors  of  a  hospital  or  the  offices 
of  an  accident  insurance  company. 

Here  is  depicted  a  man  lying  under  a  cart  laden  with 
immense  blocks  of  stone.  A  wheel  of  the  cart  rests  poised 
upon  his  leg  which  would  normally  be  reduced  to  pulp. 
For  his  escape  he  has  undoubted  reasons  to  be  grateful  and 
for  the  recording  of  the  fact  no  little  justification.  Here 
is  a  man  under  a  train  :  the  station  clock  shows  with 
precision  the  exact  moment  of  the  accident,  while,  as  a 

234 


u 
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a 

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O 
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The  Convent  of  Laghet 

writing  on  the  wall,  is  the  sinister  and  suggestive  word 
"sortie."  Here  is  a  youth  hurled  from  a  bicycle  over 
a  bridge  and  in  process  of  falling  down  a  terrific  height. 
In  this,  as,  indeed,  in  all  the  pictures,  the  details  of 
the  victim's  dress  and  the  colour  of  his  hair  and  even  of 
his  necktie  are  rendered  with  great  care.  In  a  picture 
of  1903,  showing  a  girl  being  knocked  down  by  a  motor 
the  details  of  the  archaic  machine  of  that  period  are  so 
exactly  portrayed  as  to  be  of  historical  interest. 

The  number  of  people  who  are  dropping  from  scaffolds 
and  ladders  is  very  great.  Complex  horse  accidents  are 
rendered  with  a  precision  which  is  usually  lacking  in  the 
mere  narrative  of  these  confusing  events.  Thus  a  lady 
and  gentleman  are  represented  as  lying  beneath  an  over- 
turned carriage.  A  grotesque  horse,  of  the  type  seen  in 
pantomimes,  with  a  vicious  grin  on  its  face,  has  kicked 
the  driver  from  the  box.  This  outraged  man  is  standing 
on  his  head  in  the  road,  his  body  and  legs  being  sustained, 
by  some  unknown  force,  in  the  vertical  position.  Here 
is  a  motor  accident :  the  motor  has  plunged  into  a  swamp. 
The  three  dislodged  occupants  are  kneeling  together,  in 
the  middle  of  the  highway,  praying;  while  the  more 
practical  chauffeur  is  holding  his  hands  aloft  and  is 
apparently  crying  for  help. 

There  are  many  shipwrecks  in  which  the  waves, 
fashioned  apparently  of  plaster  of  Paris,  are  very  terrify- 
ing. Gun  accidents  are  numerous  and  troubles  arising 
from  fireworks  not  uncommon.  Tramcar  accidents, 
including  the  collisions  of  the  same,  are  frequent.  There 
are  incidents  also  of  a  simpler  type.  In  one,  for  instance, 
a  gentleman  is  represented  as  slipping — probably  on  a 
banana  skin — on  the  Rampe  at  Monaco.     He  is  falling 

235 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road' 

heavily.  Another  shows  a  lady  of  eighty-three,  nicely 
dressed  and  with  a  fan  in  her  hand,  walking  indiscreetly 
at  7  P.M.  on  a  plank  projecting  over  a  precipice.  There 
is  a  mansion  in  the  background  from  which  a  man-— of 
the  same  size  as  the  house— is  running  to  the  scene  of 
this  imprudent  act. 

There  are  also  in  the  collection  misadventures  of  an 
unusual  character.  Thus  on  a  mountain  road  huge  rocks 
are  falling,  in  some  profusion,  on  an  omnibus.  In  a 
painting  dated  1863  a  child,  aged  fifteen  months,  is  being 
eaten  by  a  pig.  The  pig  seems  to  have  dragged  the 
infant  out  of  a  cradle  by  its  ear  in  order  to  consume  it 
with  greater  ease. 

Some  accidents  may  be  classified  as  vicarious.  For 
example  a  man  is  shown  beating  a  mule.  He  does  this 
without  inconvenience  to  himself ;  but  the  resentful  mule, 
who  is  evidently  no  discerner  of  persons,  is  kicking  another 
(and  probably  quite  innocent)  man  very  cruelly  in  the 
stomach  with  its  fore  hoof. 

Then  too  there  are  complex  happenings  which  must 
have  involved  a  great  strain  upon  the  invention  and 
resource  of  any  artist  who  wished  to  be  accurate.  For 
instance  here  is  a  house  being  struck  by  lightning.  The 
house,  for  the  sake  of  clearness,  is  shown  in  section,  like 
a  doll's  house  with  the  front  open.  In  an  upper  chamber 
are  members  of  the  family  engaged  in  cooking.  The 
lightning  passes  ostentatiously  through  the  room,  leaving 
the  occupants  unharmed ;  but  it  escapes  by  the  front  door 
and  there  kills  a  donkey  which  is  lying  dead  on  the  door- 
step. Then  again  the  average  artist  if  asked  how  he 
would  proceed  to  paint  a  picture  to  illustrate  "  recovery 

from  inflammation  of  the  right  jaw  "  might  find  himself 

236 


LAGHET  :    ONE   OF   THE   CLOISTERS. 


The  Convent  of  Laghet 

perplexed  since  the  subject  is  so  lacking  in  tangible 
incident.  The  ingenious  limner  of  Laghet  is,  however, 
at  no  loss  and  proceeds  to  carry  out  the  commission  with 
a  light  heart  and  in  the  following  fashion.  We  see  a 
bedroom  with  a  bed  in  it  and  a  chair.  There  are  pictures 
on  the  wall.  There  is  a  table  on  which  are  a  candle,  a 
cup  and  a  species  of  pot.  On  a  cane  sofa  sits  a  solitary 
gentleman  dressed  in  a  frock  coat  and  light  trousers. 
His  face  is  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief.  The  right  side  of 
the  face  is  swollen.  He  appears  to  be  about  to  leap  from 
the  sofa,  his  eyes  being  directed  to  a  vision  of  the 
Madonna  in  a  cloud  on  the  wall.  The  picture  clearly 
suggests  that  the  suflPerer  has  been  laid  up  in  bed ;  the 
candle  hints  at  restless  nights ;  the  cup  and  pot  at  medical 
treatment.  The  fact  that  the  patient  is  clothed  in  a  frock 
coat  shows  improvement,  while  his  apparent  intention  to 
spring  from  the  sofa  conveys  the  idea  that  the  final  cure 
has  been  sudden. 

There  are  very  many  sick-room  scenes,  complete  with 
puzzled  doctors  and  weeping  relations  around  the  bedside. 
In  certain  of  these  illustrations  individual  and  unpleasant 
symptoms  are  depicted  with  so  conscientious  a  determina- 
tion and  so  complete  a  disregard  for  the  feelings  of  the 
onlooker  as  fully  to  support  the  dictum  that  "  Art  is 
Truth.'' 

One  picture  may  have  puzzled  the  hanging  committee 
of  Laghet.  It  depicts  a  smiling  man  being  released  from 
prison.  The  occasion  is  one  that  no  doubt  evoked  thank- 
fulness on  the  part  of  the  captive,  but  the  inference  that 
his  incarceration  was  an  "accident"  opens  up  a  legal 
point  of  some  delicacy.  Curious  presents  have  been 
bestowed  upon  Laghet.     Among  them  is  the  gift  of  the 

237 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Princess  Maria  Josephina  Baptista.  It  consisted  of  a 
silver  leg  of  the  same  size  and  weight  as  her  own  leg 
which  was  happily  cured  at  the  convent. 

In  certain  places  on  the  walls  of  this  strange  Cloister 
of  Calamity  hang  crutches  and  sticks,  discarded  surgical 
appliances,  boots  for  deformed  feet,  spinal  supports  and 
splints.  They  speak  for  themselves.  The  little  crutches 
and  the  little  splints  speak  with  especial  eloquence ;  while, 
as  a  most  pathetic  object  amid  the  grosser  implements 
of  suffering,  is  a  small  steeled  shoe  which  must  have 
belonged  to  a  very  tiny  pilgrim  indeed. 

On  the  cross-piece  of  one  crutch  a  swallow  has  built 
a  nest.  The  crutch  and  the  swallow  may  almost  be  taken 
as  symbolic  of  Laghet — the  crutch  the  emblem  of  the 
halting  cripple,  the  swallow  of  the  joyous  heart  winging 
its  way  through  the  blue  of  heaven. 


238 


XXXII 

THE    CITY    OF    PETER    PAN 

BETWEEN  Monte  Carlo  and  Mentone  is  the  little 
town  of  Roquebrune.  It  stands  high  up  on  the 
flank  of  that  range  of  hills  which  follows  the  road 
and  which  shuts  out,  like  a  wall,  all  sight  of  the  world 
stretching  away  to  the  north. 

Certain  conventional  phrases  are  used  in  describing 
the  site  of  a  village  or  small  town.  When  it  lies  at  the 
bottom  of  a  hill  it  "nestles"  and  when  it  approaches 
the  top  it  "  perches."  Roquebrune  is  distinctly 
"perched"  upon  the  hillside.  Indeed  it  appears  to 
cling  to  it  as  a  house-martin  clings  to  sloping  eaves 
and  to  keep  its  hold  with  some  difficulty.  The  town  looks 
unsteady,  as  if  it  must  inevitably  slip  downwards  into 
the  road. 

At  some  little  distance  behind  Roquebrune  is  a  great 
cliff  from  the  foot  of  which  spreads  a  long  incline.  It 
is  on  a  precarious  ledge  on  this  slope  that  the  place  is 
lodged,  like  a  pile  of  crockery  on  the  brink  of  a  shelf  and 
that  shelf  tilted. 

An  enticing  feature  about  any  town  is  the  approach 
to  it,  the  first  close  sight  of  its  walls,  the  glimpse  of  the 
actual  entrance  that  leads  into  the  heart  of  it.  Now  the 
entrance  to  Roquebrune  is  strange,  strange  enough  to 
satisfy  the  expectation  of  any  who,  seeing  the  place  from 

239 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

afar,  have  wondered  what  it  would  be  like  near  at  hand. 
A  steep  path,  paved  with  cobble  stones,  mounts  up  be- 
tween two  old  yellow  walls  and  at  the  end  of  the  path 
is  the  town.  It  is  entered  by  a  flight  of  stone  steps  which, 
passing  into  the  shadow  of  a  tunnelled  way  beneath  high 
houses,  opens  suddenly  into  the  sunlight  of  the  chief 
street  of  Roquebrune. 

It  is  a  cheerful  little  town,  clean  and  trim.  It  is 
undoubtedly  curious  and  as  one  penetrates  further  into 
its  by-ways  it  becomes — as  Alice  in  Wonderland  would 
remark — "  curiouser  and  curiouser."  It  is  largely  a  town 
of  stairs,  of  straight  stairs  and  crooked  stairs,  of  stairs 
that  soar  into  dark  holes  and  are  seen  no  more,  of  stairs 
that  climb  up  openly  on  the  outside  of  houses,  of  stairs 
bleached  white,  of  stairs  green  with  weeds  and  of  stairs 
that  stand  alone — for  the  place  that  they  led  to  has  gone. 
It  would  seem  to  be  a  precept  in  Roquebrune  that  if  a 
dwelling  can  be  entered  by  a  range  of  steps  it  must  be  so 
approached  in  preference  to  any  other  way. 

The  streets  are  streets  by  name  only,  for  they  are 
mere  lanes  and  very  narrow  even  for  lanes.  They  appear 
to  go  where  they  like,  so  long  as  they  go  uphill.  They 
all  go  uphill,  straggling  thither  by  any  route  that  pleases 
them.  The  impression  is  soon  gained  that  the  people  of 
Roquebrune  are  living  on  a  curious  staircase  fashioned 
out  of  the  mountain-side.  So  far  as  the  outer  world  is 
concerned  Roquebrune  would  be  described  as  "  upstairs." 
The  houses  seem  to  have  been  tumbled  on  to  the  giant 
steps  as  if  they  had  been  emptied  out  of  a  child's  toy- 
box  only  that  they  have  all  fallen  with  the  roofs  upper- 
most. There  results  a  confusing  irregularity  that  would 
turn  the  brain  of  a  town  planner. 

240 


ROQUEBRUNE,    FROM   NEAR   BON   VOYAGE. 


The  City  of  Peter  Pan 

Roquebrune  has  been  piled  up  rather  than  built.  The 
front  doorstep  of  one  house  may  be  just  above  the  roof 
of  the  house  below,  with  only  a  lane  to  separate  them; 
while  two  houses,  standing  side  by  side  may  find  them- 
selves so  strangely  assorted  that  the  kitchen  and  stables 
of  the  one  will  be  in  a  line  with  the  bedrooms  of  the 
other. 

The  houses  are  old.  They  form  a  medley  of  all  shapes 
and  sizes,  heights  and  widths.  They  conform  to  no 
pattern  or  type.  They  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  been 
designed.  The  majority  are  of  stone.  Some  few  are  of 
plaster  and  these  are  inclined  to  be  gay  in  colour,  to  be 
yellow  or  pink,  to  have  little  balconies  and  green  shutters 
and  garlands  painted  on  the  walls. 

The  streets  are  delightful,  because  they  are  so  mys- 
terious and  have  so  many  unexpected  turns  and  twists, 
so  many  odd  corners  and  so  many  quaint  nooks.  In 
places  they  dip  under  houses  or  enter  into  cool,  vaulted 
ways,  where  there  is  an  abiding  twihght.  There  are  in- 
tense contrasts  of  light  and  shade  in  the  by-ways  of 
Roquebrune,  floods  of  brilliant  sunshine  on  the  cobble 
stones  and  the  walls  alternating  with  masses  of  black 
shadow,  each  separated  from  the  other  by  hues  as  sharp 
as  those  that  mark  the  divisions  of  a  chess-board.  There 
are  suspicious-looking  doors  of  battered  and  decaying 
wood,  stone  archways,  cheery  entries  in  the  wall  that 
open  into  homely  sitting-rooms  as  well  as  trap-like  holes 
that  lead  into  mouldy  vaults. 

One  small  street,  the  Rue  Pie,  appears  to  have  lost 

all  control  over  itself,  for  it  dives  insanely  under  another 

street — houses,  road  and  all — and  then  rushes  down  hill 

in  the  dark  to  apparent  destruction.     There  is  one  lane 

Q  241 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

that  is  especially  picturesque.  It  is  a  secretive  kind  of 
way,  bearing  the  romance-suggesting  name  of  the  Rue 
MongoUet.  It  is  very  steep,  as  it  needs  must  be.  It  is 
dim,  for  it  passes  under  buildings,  like  a  heading  in  a 
mine.  It  winds  about  just  as  the  alley  in  a  story  ought 
to  wind  and  finally  bursts  out  into  the  light  in  an  un- 
expected place.  It  is  to  some  extent  cut  through  rock, 
so  that  in  places  it  is  hard  to  tell  which  is  house  and 
which  is  rock. 

There  is  a  piazza  in  Roquebrune,  a  real  public  square, 
a  place  J  with  the  name  of  the  Place  des  Freres.  It  lies 
at  the  edge  of  the  cliff  where  it  is  protected  by  a  parapet 
from  which  stretches  a  superb  view  of  the  green  slope 
to  the  road  and,  beyond  the  road,  of  Cap  Martin  and 
the  sea.  It  is  a  peculiar  square,  for  on  two  sides  there 
are  only  bald  precipices.  In  one  corner  are  a  cafe  and 
a  fountain,  while  on  the  third  side  is  a  school.  The  piazza 
is,  no  doubt,  used  for  occasions  of  ceremony,  for  speech 
making  and  receptions  by  the  mayor;  but  on  all  but 
high  days  and  holidays  it  is  a  playground  for  a  crowd 
of  busy  children. 

The  church  is  placed  near  a  point  where  the  sea-path 
makes  its  entry  into  Roquebrune.  It  is  comparatively 
modern  and  of  no  special  interest.  On  the  wall  of  a 
house  near  by  is  a  stone  on  which  is  carved  a  monogram 
of  Christ  with  a  "torsade"  or  twisted  border.  This  is 
said  to  be  a  relic  of  an  ancient  church  which  stood  upon 
the  site  of  the  existing  building. 

There  is,  however,  a  delightful  and  unexpected  feature 
about  the  present  church.  A  door  opens  suddenly  from 
the  sombre  aisle  into  the  sunshine  of  a  wondrous  garden 
— wondrous  but  very  small.     The  garden  skirts  the  rim 

242 


The  City  of  Peter  Pan 

of  the  rock  upon  which  the  church  stands.  It  is  a  more 
fitting  adjunct  to  the  church  than  any  pillared  cloister 
or  monastic  court  could  be.  It  is  a  simple,  affectionate 
little  place  and  is  always  spoken  of  by  those  who  come 
upon  it  as  "the  dear  little  garden."  There  are  many 
roses  in  it,  a  palm  tree  or  two  and  beds  bright  with  iris 
and  hyacinth,  narcissus  and  candytuft  and  with  just  such 
contented  flowers  as  are  found  about  an  old  thatched 
cottage.  There  is  a  well  in  the  garden  and  a  shady  bench 
with  a  far  view  over  the  Mediterranean.  Old  houses  and 
the  church  make  a  background ;  while  many  birds  fill  the 
place  with  their  singing.  In  this  retreat  will  often  be 
found  the  cure  of  Roquebrune.  He  is  as  picturesque 
as  his  garden,  as  simple  and  as  charming. 

On  the  crown  of  Roquebrune  stands  the  old  castle 
of  the  Lascaris.  It  still  commands  and  dominates  the 
town,  as  it  has  done  for  long  centuries  in  the  past.  It 
is  disposed  of  by  Baedeker  in  the  following  words  "  adm. 
25c. ;  fine  view."  It  is  a  good  example  of  a  mediaeval 
fortress  and  is  much  less  ruinous  than  are  so  many  of 
its  time.  It  is  placed  on  the  bare  rock  which  forms  the 
top  of  the  town  and  is  surrounded  by  great  walls.  It 
is  a  veritable  strong  place,  with  a  fine  square  tower,  tall, 
massive  and  imposing.  It  is  covered  on  one  side  with 
ivy  and  has  thus  lost  much  of  its  ancient  grimness,  while 
about  its  feet  cluster,  in  a  curious  medley,  the  red,  grey 
and  brown  roofs  of  the  faithful  town. 

Within  the  keep  are  a  great  hall,  many  vaulted  rooms 
and  a  vaulted  stair  which  leads  to  the  summit  of  the 
castle.  Those  with  an  active  imagination  will  find  among 
the  ruins  the  guard-room,  the  justice  chamber,  the  ladies' 
quarters  and  the  dungeons,  but  the  lines  which  indicate 

243 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

such  places  have  become  exceedingly  faint.  Certain 
trumpery  ''  restorations  "  have  been  carried  out  in  this 
lordly  old  ruin  which  would  discredit  even  a  suburban 
tea-garden.  The  only  apology  that  could  be  offered  for 
them  is  that  they  would  not  deceive  a  child  of  five. 

It  is  impossible  to  regard  Roquebrune  seriously  or 
to  think  of  it  as  an  old  frontier  stronghold  that  has  had 
a  place  in  history.  Roquebrune,  as  a  town,  belongs  to 
the  country  of  the  story  book.  It  is  a  town  for  boys 
and  girls  to  play  in.  It  is  just  the  town  they  love  to 
read  about  and  dream  about  and  to  make  the  scene  of 
the  doings  of  their  heroes  and  heroines  and  their  other 
queer  people.  From  a  modern  point  of  view  this  happy 
little  town  is  quite  ridiculous.  It  is  full  of  funny  places, 
of  whimsical  streets  and  of  those  odd  houses  that  children 
draw  on  slates  when  one  of  them  has  made  the  rapturous 
suggestion — "  let  us  draw  a  street."  It  has  an  odd  well 
too — a  real  well  with  real  water — but  it  is  bewitched  and 
haunted  by  real  witches.  At  least  the  people  about  are 
so  convinced  they  are  real  that  they  are  afraid  to  come 
to  the  well  for  water.  Now  a  well  of  this  kind  is  never 
met  with  in  an  ordinary  town. 

There  are  walled  places  in  Roquebrune  where  oranges 
and  lemons  are  growing  side  by  side  and  where  both 
lavender  and  rosemary  are  blooming.  The  garden  of 
the  church  is  a  child's  garden,  for  the  paths  are  narrow 
and  roundabout  and  the  flowers  are  children's  flowers 
such  as  are  found  on  nursery  tables,  while  the  whole 
place  bears  that  pleasant  form  of  untidiness  which  is  only 
to  be  found  where  children  are  the  gardeners.  There 
is  in  the  town — as  everybody  knows — a  Place  des  Freres 

and  with  little  doubt  there  is  also,  somewhere  on  the 

244 


The  City  of  Peter  Pan 

rock,  a  Place  des  Soeurs  which  is  prettier  and  which  only 
a  favoured  few  would  know  about  or  could  find  their 
way  to. 

Nothing  that  happens  in  any  story  book  would  seem 
out  of  place  in  Roquebrune.  Indeed  one  is  surprised 
in  wandering  through  its  curious  ways  to  find  it  occupied 
by  ordinary  people,  men  with  bowler  hats  and  women 
who  are  obviously  not  princesses.  One  expects  to  come 
upon  blind  pedlars,  old  women  in  scarlet  capes  and 
pointed  hats,  mendicants  who  are  really  of  royal  blood, 
hags — especially  hags  with  sticks — ladies  wrapped  in 
cloaks  which  just  fail  to  conceal  their  golden  hair,  servants 
carrying  heavy  boxes  with  great  secrecy  and  mariners 
from  excessively  foreign  parts. 

There  is  a  steep,  cobble-paved  lane  in  Roquebrune 
up  which  Jack  and  Jill  must  assuredly  have  climbed  when 
they  went  to  fetch  the  pail  of  water  which  led  to  the 
regrettable  accident.  Indeed  it  is  hardly  possible  for  a 
child,  burdened  with  a  bucket,  not  to  tumble  down  in 
Roquebrune.  By  the  parapet  in  the  Place  des  Freres 
there  is  a  stone  upon  which  Little  Boy  Blue  must  have 
stood  when  he  blew  his  horn ;  for  no  place  could  be  con- 
ceived more  appropriate  for  that  exercise.  There  are 
walls  too  without  number,  walls  both  high  and  low,  some 
bare,  some  green  with  ferns,  which  would  satisfy  the 
passion  for  sitting  upon  walls  of  a  hundred  Humpty 
Dumpties. 

The  town  itself  is — I  feel  assured — the  kind  of  town 
that  Jack  reached  when  he  climbed  to  the  top  of  the 
Beanstalk,  for  the  entrance  to  Roquebrune  is  precisely 
the  sort  of  entrance  one  would  expect  a  beanstalk  to 
lead  to.    In  one  kitchen  full  of  brown  shadows,  in  a  side 

245 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

street  near  the  Rue  Pie,  is  an  ancient  cupboard  in  which, 
almost  without  question.  Old  Mother  Hubbard  kept  that 
hypothetical  bone  which  caused  the  poor  dog  such  un- 
necessary distress  of  mind ;  while  in  a  wicker  cage  in  the 
window  of  a  child's  bedroom  was  the  Blue  Bird,  sing- 
ing as  only  that  bird  can  sing. 

As  there  are  still  wolves  in  the  woods  about  Roque- 
brune  and  as  red  hoods  are  still  fashionable  in  the  Place 
des  Freres  it  is  practically  certain  that  Little  Red  Riding 
Hood  lived  here  since  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  town 
that  would  have  suited  her  better.  As  for  Jack  the  Giant 
Killer  it  is  beyond  dispute  that  he  came  to  Roquebrune, 
for  the  very  castle  he  approached  is  still  standing,  the 
very  gate  is  there  from  which  he  hurled  defiance  to  the 
giant  as  well  as  the  very  stair  he  ascended.  Moreover 
there  is  a  room  or  hall  in  the  castle — or  at  least  the 
remains  of  it — which  obviously  no  one  but  a  giant  could 
have  occupied. 

As  time  goes  on  archaeologists  will  certainly  prove, 
after  due  research,  that  Roquebrune  is  the  City  of  Peter 
Pan.  There  is  no  town  he  would  love  so  well ;  none  so 
adapted  to  his  particular  tastes  and  habits,  nor  so  con- 
venient for  the  display  of  those  domestic  virtues  which 
Wendy  possessed.  No  one  should  grow  up  in  this  queer 
city,  just  as  no  place  in  a  nursery  tale  should  grow  old. 

Peter  Pan  is  not  adapted  to  the  cold,  drear  climate 
of  England.  He  stands,  as  a  figure  in  bronze,  in 
Kensington  Gardens  with  perhaps  snow  on  his  curly  head 
or  with  rain  dripping  from  the  edge  of  his  scanty  shirt. 
He  should  be  always  in  the  sun,  within  sight  of  a  sea 
which  is  ever  blue  and  among  hills  which  are  deep  in 
green.     He  could  stride  down  a  street  in  Roquebrune 

246 


ROQUEBRUNE:    THE   EAST    GATE. 


ROQUEBRUNE  :    THE   PLAGE   DES   FRERES. 


The  City  of  Peter  Pan 

clad — as  the  sculptor  shows  him — only  in  his  shirt  with- 
out exciting  more  than  a  pleasant  nod,  but  in  the  Bays- 
water  Road  he  would  attract  attention.  He  is  out  of 
place  in  a  London  park  in  a  waste  of  tired  grass  dotted 
with  iron  chairs  which  are  let  out  at  a  penny  apiece. 
Those  delightful  little  people  and  those  inquisitive  animals 
who  are  peeping  out  of  the  crevices  in  the  bronze  rock 
upon  which  he  stands  would  flourish  in  this  sunny  hill 
town,  for  there  are  rocks  in  the  very  streets  among  which 
they  could  make  their  homes. 

Then  again  Captain  Hook  would  enjoy  Roquebrune. 
It  is  so  full  of  really  horrible  places  and  there  are  so 
many  half -hidden  \\dndows  out  of  which  he  could  scream 
to  the  terror  of  honest  folk.  The  pirates  too  would  be 
more  comfortable  in  this  irregular  city,  for  it  is  near  the 
sea  and  close  to  that  kind  of  cave  without  which  no  pirate 
is  ever  quite  at  ease.  Moreover  the  Serpentine  affords 
but  limited  scope  to  those  whose  hearts  are  really  devoted 
to  the  pursuit  of  piracy  and  buccaneering. 

So  far  I  do  not  happen  to  have  met  with  a  pirate 
of  Captain  Hook's  type  within  the  walls  of  Roquebrune ; 
but,  late  one  afternoon  when  the  place  was  lonely  I  saw 
a  bent  man  plodding  up  in  the  shadows  of  the  Rue 
Mongollet.  He  was  a  sinewy  creature  with  brown,  hairy 
legs.  I  could  not  see  his  face  because  he  bore  on  his 
shoulders  a  large  and  flabby  burden,  but  I  am  convinced 
that  he  was  Sindbad  the  Sailor,  toiling  up  from  the 
beach  and  carrying  on  his  back  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea. 


247 


XXXIII 

THE  LEGEND  OF  ROQUEBRUNE 

THE  position  of  Roquebrune  high  up  on  the  hillside 
appears — as  has  already  been  stated — to  be  pre- 
carious. It  seems  as  if  the  little  city  were  sliding 
(down  towards  the  sea  and  would,  indeed,  make  that 
descent  if  it  were  not  for  an  inconsiderable  ledge  that 
stands  in  its  way.  It  can  scarcely  be  a  matter  of  surprise, 
therefore,  that  there  is  a  legend  to  the  effect  that 
Roquebrune  once  stood  much  higher  up  the  hill,  that 
the  side  of  the  mountain  broke  away,  laying  bare  the 
cliff  and  carrying  the  town  down  with  it  to  its  present 
site,  where  the  opportune  ledge  stayed  its  further 
movement. 

Like  other  legendary  landslips  this  convulsion  of 
nature  is  said  to  have  taken  place  at  night  and  to  have 
been  conducted  with  such  delicacy  and  precision  that  the 
inhabitants  were  unaware  of  the  "move.'*  They  were 
not  even  awakened  from  sleep  :  no  stool  was  overturned  : 
no  door  swung  open  :  the  mug  of  wine  left  overnight  by 
the  drowsy  reveller  stood  unspilled  on  the  table  :  no 
neurotic  dog  burst  into  barking,  nor  did  a  cock  crow, 
as  is  the  custom  of  that  bird  when  untoward  events  are 
in  progress.  Next  morning  the  early  riser,  strolling  into 
the  street  with  a  yawn,  found  that  his  native  town  had 
made  quite  a  journey  downhill  towards  the  sea  and  had 

248 


The  Legend  of  Roquebrune 

merely  left  behind  it  a  wide  scar  in  the  earth  which  would 
make  a  most  convenient  site  for  a  garden.  Unhappily 
landslips  are  no  longer  carried  out  with  this  considerate 
decorum,  so  the  gratitude  of  Roquebrune  should  endure 
for  ever. 

This  is  one  legend ;  but  there  is  another  which  is  a 
little  more  stirring  and  which  has  besides  a  certain 
botanical  interest.  At  a  period  which  would  be  more 
clearly  defined  as  ''once  upon  a  time"  the  folk  of 
Roquebrune  were  startled  by  a  sudden  horrible  rumbling 
in  the  ground  beneath  their  feet,  followed  by  a  fearful 
and  sickly  tremor  which  spread  through  the  astonished 
town. 

Everybody,  clad  or  unclad,  young  or  old,  rushed 
into  the  street  screaming,  "  An  earthquake !  "  It  was 
an  earthquake;  because  every  house  in  the  place  was 
trembling  like  a  man  with  ague,  but  it  was  more  than 
an  earthquake  for  the  awful  fact  became  evident 
that  Roquebrune  was  beginning  to  glide  towards  the 
sea. 

People  tore  down  the  streets  to  the  open  square,  to 
the  Place  des  Freres,  which  stands  on  the  seaward  edge 
of  the  town.  The  stampede  was  hideous,  for  the  street 
was  unsteady  and  uneven.  The  very  road — the  hard, 
cobbled  road — was  thrown  into  moving  waves,  such  as  pass 
along  a  shaken  strip  of  carpet.  To  walk  was  impossible. 
Some  fell  headlong  down  the  street ;  others  crawled  down 
on  all  fours  or  slid  down  in  the  sitting  position ;  but  the 
majority  rolled  down,  either  one  by  one  or  in  clumps,  all 
clinging  together. 

The  noise  was  fearful.  It  was  a  din  made  up  of  the 
cracking  of  splintered  rock,  the  falling  of  chimneys,  the 

249 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

rattle  of  windows  and  doors,  the  banging  to  and  fro  of 
loose  furniture,  the  crashing  of  the  church  bells,  mingled 
with  the  shouts  of  men,  the  prayers  of  women  and  the 
screams  of  children.  A  man  thrown  downstairs  and 
clinging  to  the  heaving  floor  could  hear  beneath  him  the 
grinding  of  the  foundations  of  his  house  against  the  rock 
as  the  building  slid  on. 

The  houses  rocked  from  side  to  side  like  a  labouring 
ship.  As  a  street  heeled  over  one  way  the  crockery  and 
pots  and  pans  would  pour  out  of  the  doors  like  water  and 
rattle  down  the  streets  with  the  slithering  knot  of  prostrate 
people. 

Clouds  of  dust  filled  the  air,  together  with  fumes 
of  sulphur  from  the  riven  cliff.  Worst  of  all  was  an 
avalanche  of  boulders  which  dropped  upon  the  town  like 
bombs  in  an  air  raid. 

The  people  who  clung  to  the  crumbling  parapet  of 
the  Place  des  Freres  saw  most ;  for  they  were  in  a  position 
which  would  correspond  to  the  front  seat  of  a  vehicle. 
They  could  feel  and  see  the  town  (castle,  church  and 
all)  skidding  downhill  like  some  awful  machine,  out  of 
control  and  with  every  shrieking  and  howling  brake 
jammed  on. 

They  could  see  the  precipice  ahead  over  which  they 
must  soon  tumble.  Probably  they  did  not  notice  that 
at  the  very  edge  of  the  cliff,  standing  quite  alone,  was  a 
little  bush  of  broom  covered  with  yellow  flowers. 

The  town  slid  on ;  but  when  the  foremost  wall  reached 
the  bush  the  bush  did  not  budge.  It  might  have  been  a 
boss  of  brass.  It  stopped  the  town  as  a  stone  may  stop 
a  wagon.  The  avalanche  of  rocks  ceased  and,  in  a 
moment,  all  was  peace. 

250 


The  Legend  of  Roquebrune 

The  inhabitants  disentangled  themselves,  stood  up, 
looked  for  their  hats,  dusted  their  clothes  and  walked  back, 
with  unwonted  steadiness,  to  their  respective  homes, 
grumbling,  no  doubt,  at  the  carelessness  of  the  Town 
Council. 

They  showed  some  lack  of  gratitude  for  I  notice  that 
a  bush  of  broom  has  no  place  on  the  coat  of  arms  of 
Roquebrune. 


251 


XXXIV 

SOME    MEMORIES    OF    ROQUEBRUNE 

ROQUEBRUNE  is  very  old.  It  can  claim  a  lineage 
so  ancient  that  the  first  stirrings  of  human  Hfe 
"  among  the  rocks  on  which  it  stands  would  appear 
to  the  historian  as  a  mere  speck  in  the  dark  hollow  of  the 
unknown.  Roquebrune  has  been  a  town  since  men  left 
caves  and  forests  and  began  to  live  in  dwellings  made  by 
hands.  It  can  boast  that  for  long  years  it  was — with 
Monaco  and  Eze — one  of  the  three  chief  sea  towns  along 
this  range  of  coast.  Its  history  differs  in  detail  only  from 
the  history  of  any  old  settlement  within  sight  of  the 
northern  waters  of  the  Mediterranean. 

The  Pageant  of  Roquebrune  unfolds  itself  to  the 
imagination  as  a  picturesque  march  of  men  with  a  broken 
hillside  as  a  background  and  a  stone  stair  as  a  processional 
way.  Foremost  in  the  column  that  moves  across  the  stage 
would  come  the  vague  figure  of  the  native  searching  for 
something  to  eat ;  then  the  shrewd  Phoenician  would  pass 
searching  for  something  to  barter  and  then  the  staid 
soldierly  Roman  seeking  for  whatever  would  advance  the 
glory  of  his  imperial  city.  They  all  in  turn  had  lived  in 
Roquebrune. 

As  the  Pageant  progressed  there  would  pass  by  the 
hectoring  Lombard,  the  swarthy  Moor,  a  restless  band 

of  robber  barons  and  pirate  chiefs,  a  medley  of  mediaeval 

252 


ROQUEBRUNE,    SHOWING   THE   CASTLE. 


Some  Memories  of  Roquebrune 

men-at-arms  and  a  cluster  of  lords  and  ladies  with  their 
suites.  They  all  in  turn  had  lived  in  Roquebrune. 
Finally  there  would  mount  the  stair  the  shopkeeper  and 
the  artisan  of  to-day,  who  would  reach  the  foot  of 
Roquebrune  in  a  tramcar. 

This  Pageant  of  Roquebrune  would  impress  the  mind 
with  the  great  antiquity  of  man,  with  his  ceaseless  evolu- 
tion through  the  ages  with  an  ever-repeated  change  in 
face,  in  speech,  in  bearing  and  in  garb.  Yet  look ! 
Above  the  housetops  of  the  present  town  a  company  of 
swifts  is  whirling  with  a  shrill  whistle  like  that  of  a  sword 
swishing  through  the  air.  They,  at  least,  have  remained 
unchanged. 

They  hovered  over  the  town  before  the  Romans 
came.  They  have  seen  the  Saracens,  the  troopers  of 
Savoy,  the  Turkish  bandits,  the  soldiers  of  Napoleon. 
Age  after  age,  it  would  seem,  they  have  been  the  same, 
the  same  happy  birds,  the  same  circle  of  wings,  the 
same  song  in  the  air. 

On  the  rock  too  are  bushes  of  rosemary — "  Rosemary 
for  remembrance. '*  The  Httle  shrub  with  its  blue  flower 
has  also  seen  no  change.  The  caveman  knew  it  when  he 
first  wandered  over  the  hill  with  the  curiosity  of  a  child. 
The  centurion  picked  a  bunch  of  it  to  put  in  his  helmet. 
The  pirate  of  six  hundred  years  ago  slashed  at  it  with  his 
cutlass  as  he  passed  along  and  the  maiden  of  to-day  presses 
it  shyly  upon  her  parting  lover. 

In  the  Pageant  of  Roquebrune  man  is,  indeed,  the 
new-comer,  the  upstart,  the  being  of  to-day,  the  creature 
that  changes.  The  swifts,  the  rosemary  and  the  hillside 
belong  to  old  Roquebrune. 

The  following  are  certain  landmarks  in  the  tale  of  the 

253 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

town.^  It  seems  to  have  belonged  at  first  to  the  Counts 
of  Ventimigha,  about  in  the  same  way  that  a  wallet  picked 
up  by  the  roadside  would  belong  to  the  finder.  In  477 
these  Counts  sold  it  to  a  Genoese  family  of  the  name  of 
Vento.  In  1189  the  town  is  spoken  of  as  Genoese  and 
as  being  in  the  holding  of  the  Lascaris.  It  was  indeed 
for  long  a  stronghold  of  this  house.  About  1353 
Carlo  Grimaldi  of  Monaco  purchased  Roquebrune  from 
Guglielmo  Lascaris,  Count  of  Ventimiglia,  for  6,000 
golden  florins.  The  union  of  Monaco,  Roquebrune  and 
Mentone  thus  accomplished  lasted  for  500  years  with 
unimportant  intervals  during  which  the  union  was  for 
a  moment  severed  or  reduced  to  a  thread.  From 
1524  to  1641  the  Httle  town  was  under  the  protection 
of  Spain. 

In  1848  Roquebrune,  supported  by  Mentone,  rebelled 
against  the  Grimaldi,  after  suffering  oppression  at  their 
hands  for  thirty-three  years,  and  declared  itself  a  free  town 
or,  rather,  a  little  republic.  It  so  remained  until  1860 
when  it  was  united  with  France  at  the  time  that  Nice 
was  ceded  to  that  country.  An  indemnity  of  4,000,000 
francs  was  paid  to  the  Prince  of  Monaco  in  compensation 
for  such  of  his  dominions  as  changed  hands  in  that  year.^ 

Roquebrune,  of  course,  did  not  escape  the  disorders 
which  befell  other  towns  in  its  vicinity.  Its  position 
rendered  it  weak,  exposed  it  to  danger  and  made  it  difficult 
to  defend.  It  was  sacked  on  occasion,  notably  by  the 
Turks  about  1543  after  they  had  dealt  with  Eze  in  the 
manner  already  described  (page  127).     It  met  with  its 

»  As  to  the  name  "  Cabbd  Roquebrune,"  Dr.  MuUer  says  that  cabbi  means 
a  little  cape  (the  Cap  Martin). 

»  Durandy,  "Men  pays,  etc.,   de   la  Riviera,"  1918.     Dr.    Muller,   "Men- 
tone,"  1910.     Bosio,     "La  Province  des  Alpes  Maritimes,"  1902. 

254 


Some  Memories  of  Roquebrune 

most  serious  sorrow  in  1560  when  it  was  assaulted,  set 
on  fire  and  gravely  damaged. 

At  this  date  the  history  of  Roquebrune  ended  or  at 
least  changed  from  that  of  a  fortified  place  to  that  of  a 
somewhat  humble  hill  town.  So  it  sank,  like  Eze,  into 
obscurity.  The  ruins  that  remain  date  from  this  period 
and  it  is  upon  the  wreckage  of  that  year  that  the  present 
town  is  founded.  The  castle  would  appear  to  have  been 
restored,  for  the  last  time,  in  1528  when  the  work  was 
directed  by  Augustin  Grimaldi  of  Monaco  and  bishop  of 
Grasse. 

By  the  manner  in  which  Roquebrune  bore  the  stress 
of  years  and  faced  the  troubles  of  life  the  little  town 
differed  curiously  from  her  two  neighbours  of  Monaco  and 
Eze.  Monaco  and  Eze  were  distinctly  masculine  in 
character.  They  w^ere  men-towns.  They  were,  by 
natural  endowment,  very  strong.  They  boasted  of  their 
strength  and  took  advantage  of  it.  They  fought  every- 
body and  every  thing.  They  seemed  to  encourage  assault 
and  indeed  to  provoke  it.  If  hit  they  hit  back  again. 
Their  masculinity  got  them  into  frequent  trouble. 
Moreover  they  loved  the  sea  and  were  masters  of  it. 

Now  Roquebrune  was  feminine.  She  was  a  woman- 
town.  She  was  constitutionally  weak.  She  was  little 
able  to  defend  herself.  When  hit  she  did  not  hit  back 
again,  because  she  was  not  strong  enough.  She  was 
bullied  and  was  powerless  to  resent  it.  She  was  afraid  of 
the  sea,  as  many  women  are,  and  cared  not  to  venture 
on  it. 

She  showed  her  feminine  disposition  in  more  ways  than 
one.  Roquebrune  had  been  under  the  harsh  tyranny  of 
Monaco  for  a  number  of  years,  but  she  endured  her  ill 

255 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

treatment  in  silence.  She  bent  her  back  to  the  blow. 
Bhe  crouched  on  the  ground,  passive  and  apparently 
cowed.  Women  will  endure  oppression  patiently  and 
without  murmuring  for  a  very  long  time.  But  a  moment 
comes  when  they  revolt,  and  it  is  noteworthy  that  they 
revolt  generally  with  success,  for  the  issue  depends  not 
only  upon  a  masterly  patience,  but  upon  the  choice  of  the 
proper  time  to  end  it.  A  town  of  the  type  of  Eze  would 
have  had  neither  the  patience  to  wait  nor  the  instinct  to 
select  the  moment  for  an  uprising.  Eze,  after  a  year 
or  so  of  hardship,  would  have  flown  at  the  throat  of 
Monaco  and  would  probably  have  been  annihilated  in 
the  venture. 

Roquebrune  waited  a  great  deal  more  than  a  year  or 
so.  She  waited  and  endured  for  thirty-three  years  and 
when  instinct  told  her  that  the  right  time  had  come  she 
turned  upon  the  enemy,  but  not  with  a  battleaxe  in  her 
hand.  She  quietly  placed  herself  under  the  protection 
of  Italy  and  when  she  had  secured  that  support  she  boldly 
declared  herself  a  free  city  and  a  free  city  she  remained 
until  she  was  received  into  the  open  arms  of  France. 

An  episode  that  happened  in  1184  will,  perhaps,  still 
better  illustrate  the  feminine  character  of  Roquebrune. 
In  that  year  the  town  was  besieged  by  the  Ventimiglians. 
The  reason  for  the  assault  is  not  explained  by  the  historian. 
It  is  probable  that  mere  want  of  something  to  do  led  to 
this  act  of  wickedness.  One  can  imagine  the  Count  of 
Ventimigha  bored  to  the  verge  of  melanchoha  by  idleness 
and  can  conceive  him  as  becoming  tiresome  and  unman- 
ageable. One  morning,  perhaps,  a  courtier  would  address 
his  yawning  lord  with  the  remark,  "What!  nothing  to 
do,  sir !    Why  not  go  and  sack  Roquebrune.^  "    To  which 

256 


ROQUEBRUNE:    RUE    DE   LA   FONTAINE, 
View  of  Castle. 


Some  Memories  of  Roquebrune 

the  count,  quite  cheered,  would  reply,   "An  excellent 
idea.     Send  for  the  captain." 

Anyhow,  whatever  the  reason,  the  count  and  his  men, 
all  in  good  spirits,  appeared  before  the  walls  of  the  town 
and  prepared  for  an  assault.  Now  the  state  of  affairs 
was  as  follows.  Roquebrune,  owing  to  its  position,  could 
not  withstand  a  siege.  Its  fall  was  inevitable  and  merely 
a  question  of  time.  The  governor  would,  however,  be 
compelled  to  defend  the  town  to  the  very  last.  He  would 
man  the  walls  and  barricade  the  gates  and,  calling  his 
company  together  in  the  Place  des  Freres  would  remind 
them  of  their  duty,  would  tell  them,  with  uplifted  sword, 
that  Roquebrune  must  be  defended  so  long  as  a  wall 
remained  ;  that  the  enemy  must  not  enter  the  town  except 
over  their  dead  bodies  and  that,  in  the  defence  of  their 
homes,  they  must  be  prepared  to  die  like  heroes. 

Now  things  seemed  rather  different  to  the  governor's 
wife.  She  was  a  shrewd  and  practical  woman  not  given 
to  heroics.  She  knew  that  Roquebrune  could  not  with- 
stand a  siege  and  must  assuredly  be  taken.  She  probably 
heard  the  stirring  address  in  the  square  and  did  not  at  all 
like  her  husband's  talk  about  dying  to  a  man  and  about 
people  walking  over  dead  bodies  and  especially  over  his 
body.  She  knew  that  the  more  determined  the  resistance 
the  more  terrible  would  be  the  revenge  when  the  town 
was  taken.  She  did  not  like  people  being  killed,  especially 
her  nice  people  of  Roquebrune.  Besides,  as  she  paced 
to  and  fro,  a  couple  of  children  were  tugging  at  her  dress 
and  asking  her  why  she  would  not  take  them  out  on  the 
hill-side  to  play  as  she  did  every  morning. 

So  when  the  night  came  she  put  a  cloak  over  her  head, 
made  her  way  out  of  the  town,  found  the  enemy's  camp 

R  257 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

and  told  the  count  how — by  certain  arrangements  she  had 
made — he  could  enter  the  town  without  the  loss  of  a  man. 

Before  the  day  dawned  the  bewildered  inhabitants, 
who  had  been  up  all  night  fussing  and  hiding  away  their 
things,  found  that  the  Ventimiglians  were  in  occupation 
of  the  town;  for,  as  the  historian  says,  "the  besiegers 
entered  the  town  without  striking  a  blow." 

Thus  ended  the  siege  of  Roquebrune.  It  ended  in  a 
way  that  was  probably  satisfactory  to  both  parties  and, 
indeed,  to  everyone  but  the  governor  who  had,  without 
question,  a  great  deal  to  say  to  his  lady  on  the  subject  of 
minding  her  own  business. 

As  she  patted  the  head  of  her  smallest  child  and  glanced 
at  the  breakfast  table  she,  no  doubt,  replied  that  she  had 
minded  her  own  business. 


258 


z 

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oi 

a 
o 

H   C) 

b 
O 

U 

m 


o 


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o 

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c« 

td 

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o 

si 

m 
X 
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XXXV 

GALLOWS    HILL 

THE  hills  that  overshadow  the  coast  road  between 
Cap  d'Ail  and  Roquebrune  are  perhaps  as  dili- 
gently traversed  by  the  winter  visitor  as  any  along 
the  Riviera,  because  in  this  area  level  roads  are  rare  and 
those  who  would  walk  far  afield  must  of  necessity  cHmb 
up  hill. 

The  hill-side  is  of  interest  on  account  of  the  number 
of  pre-historic  walled  camps  which  are  to  be  found  on 
its  slopes.  These  camps  form  a  series  of  strongholds 
which  extends  from  Cap  d'Ail  to  Roquebrune.  There 
are  some  seven  of  these  forts  within  this  range.  The 
one  furthest  to  the  west  is  Le  Castellar  de  la  Brasca  in 
the  St.  Laurent  valley  on  the  Nice  side  of  Cap  d'Ail. 
Then  come  L'AbegUo  just  above  the  Cap  d'Ail  church, 
the  Bautucan  on  the  site  of  the  old  signal  station  above 
the  Mid  Corniche,  the  Castellaretto  over  the  Boulevard 
de  rObservatoire,  Le  Cros  near  the  mule-path  to  La 
Turbie  and  lastly  Mont  des  Mules  and  Le  Ricard  near 
Roquebrune. 

Of  these  the  camp  most  easily  viewed — but  by  no 
means  the  most  easy  to  visit — is  that  of  the  Mont  des 
Mules,  on  the  way  up  to  La  Turbie.  This  is  a  bare  hill 
of  rough  rocks  upon  the  eastern  eminence  of  which  is  a 
camp  surrounded  by  a  very  massive  wall  built  up  of  huge 

259 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

unchiselled  stones.  It  is  fitly  called  a  "  camp  of  the 
giants,"  for  no  weaklings  ever  handled  such  masses  of 
rock  as  these.  The  Romans  who  first  penetrated  into 
the  country  must  have  viewed  these  military  works 
with  amazement,  for  competent  writers  affirm  that 
they  date  from  about  2,000  years  before  the  birth 
of  Christ. 

Along  this  hill-side  also  are  traces  of  the  old  Roman 
road,  fragments  which  have  been  but  little  disturbed 
and  which,  perhaps,  are  still  paved  with  the  very  stones 
over  which  have  marched  the  legions  from  the  Imperial 
City.  To  the  east  of  La  Turbie  and  just  below  La 
Grande  Corniche  are  two  Roman  milestones,  side  by 
side,  in  excellent  preservation.  There  are  two,  because 
they  have  been  placed  in  position  by  two  different 
surveyors. 

They  stand  by  the  ancient  way  and  show  clearly 
enough  the  mileage — 603.  The  next  milestone  (604) 
stood  on  the  Aurelian  Way  just  outside  La  Turbie,  at  the 
point  where  the  road  is  crossed  by  the  railway,  but  only 
the  base  of  it  remains.  Between  it  and  the  previous 
milestone  is  a  Roman  wayside  fountain  under  a  rounded 
arch.  It  is  still  used  as  a  water  supply  by  the  cottagers 
and  the  conduit  that  leads  to  it  can  be  traced  for  some 
distance  up  the  hill. 

The  first  Roman  milestone  to  the  west  of  La  Turbie 
(No.  605)  is  on  the  side  of  the  Roman  road  as  it  turns 
down  towards  Laghet.^  This  milestone  is  the  finest  in 
the  district  and  is  remarkably  well  preserved.  Those 
who  comment  on  the  closeness  of  these  milliaires  must 

*  The  ancient  road  lies  above  and  to  tlie  west  of  the  modern  road  to  the 
convent. 

260 


5 

OS 

D 
< 

OS 

<: 
z 


H 
Z 

o 

b 
Z 

o 

ai 

cd 
E 
H 


Gallows  Hill 

remember  that  the  Roman  mile  was  142  yards  shorter 
than  the  EngHsh. 

Above  the  Mont  des  Mules  is  Mont  Justicier.  It  is 
a  hill  so  bleak  and  so  desolate  that  it  is  little  more  than 
a  wind-swept  pile  of  stones.  It  has  been  used  for 
centuries  as  a  quarry  and  much  of  the  material  employed 
in  the  building  of  the  Roman  trophy  at  La  Turbie  came 
from  its  barren  sides.  Its  dreariness  is  rendered  more 
dismal  by  its  history  and  by  the  memories  that  cloud  its 
past.  These  memories  do  not  recall  a  busy  throng  of 
quarrymen  who  roared  out  chanties  as  they  worked  at 
their  cranes  and  whose  chatter  could  be  heard  above  the 
thud  of  the  pick  and  the  clink  of  the  chisel.  They  recall 
the  time  when  this  dread  mound  was  the  Hill  of  Death 
and  a  terror  in  the  land. 

On  the  summit  of  Mont  Justicier  is  a  tall,  solitary 
column.  It  appears,  at  a  distance,  to  be  a  shaft  of 
marble ;  but  it  is  made  up  of  small  pieces  of  white  stone 
cemented  together.  It  is  a  large  column  nearly  three 
feet  in  diameter  and  some  fifteen  feet  in  height.  Near 
it  is  the  base  of  a  second  column  of  identical  proportions 
to  the  first.  The  distance  between  the  two  pillars  is 
twelve  feet  and  they  stand  on  a  platform  which  faces 
southwards  across  the  sea.  These  columns  were  the  posts 
of  a  gigantic  gallows.  Their  summits  were  connected 
by  a  cross  beam  and  from  that  beam  at  least  six 
ropes  could  dangle.  This  is  why  the  mound  is  named 
Mont  Justicier,  or,  as  it  would  be  called  in  England, 
Gallows  Hill. 

The  Mount  became  a  place  of  execution  in  the 
Middle  Ages  and  towards  the  end  of  the  seventeenth 
century  there  would  never  be  a  time  when  bodies  could 

261 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

not  be  seen  swinging  from  the  beam  of  the  great  gallows, 
since  it  was  here  that  the  brigands  known  as  the  Barbets 
were  hanged. 

The  term  "  Barbet "  has  a  somewhat  curious  history. 
It  was  originally  a  nickname  given  by  the  Catholics  to 
the  Protestant  Vaudois  and  later  to  the  Protestants  of 
the  Cevennes  and  elsewhere.  The  name  had  origin  in 
the  circumstance  that  the  Vaudois  called  their  ministers 
"  barhes  "  or  "  uncles,"  in  somewhat  the  same  way  that 
the  Catholics  call  their  priests  "fathers." 

The  term  was  later  applied  to  Protestant  heretics 
generally  and  notably  to  the  Albigensians  who  held  to 
the  mountains  of  Piedmont  and  Dauphine.  They  refused 
baptism,  the  Mass,  the  adoration  of  the  Cross,  the  traffic 
in  indulgences.  "  What  was  originally  a  logical  revolt 
of  pure  reason  against  dogmatic  authority  soon  took 
unfortunately  varying  forms,  and  then  reached  un- 
pardonable extremes."^  These  men  were  outlawed, 
were  hunted  down  and  massacred  and  treated  as  rogues 
and  vagabonds  of  a  pernicious  type.  For  their  ill  name 
they  were  themselves  not  a  little  to  blame.  They  kept 
to  the  mountains  from  which  great  efforts  were  made 
to  dislodge  them  about  the  end  of  the  seventeenth 
century. 

The  term  Barbets  was  subsequently  given  to  the  in- 
habitants of  the  valleys  of  the  Alps  who  lived  by  plunder 
and  contraband  and  finally  to  any  brigands  or  robbers 
who  had  their  lairs  among  the  mountains.  "  In  the  year 
1792,"  writes  Rosio,^  "irregular  bands  were  formed, 
under  the  name  of  Barbets,  which  were  trained  and  com- 

1  "  Old  Provence,"  by  T.  A.  Cook,  Vol.  2,  p.  169. 
V  •  "  Les  Alpes  Maritimes,"  1902. 

262 


GALLOWS   HILL. 


MONT  JUSTIGIER  :    THE   TWO    ULLARS   OF  THE   GALLOWS. 


Gallows  Hill 

manded  by  military  officers  devoted  to  Sardinia.  These 
bands  of  men  harassed  the  French  army,  pillaged  the 
camps  and  held  up  convoys.  When  the  House  of  Savoy 
lost  its  hold  on  the  Continent  the  Barbets  divided  into 
smaller  companies  and  gave  themselves  up  to  open 
brigandage.  Their  habitat  was  in  the  mountains  of 
Levens,  of  L'Escarene,  Eze  and  La  Turbie.  Near 
Levens  the  unfortunates  who  fell  into  their  hands  were 
hurled  into  the  Vesubie  from  a  rock  300  metres  high 
which  is  still  called  Le  Saut  des  Fran^ais." 

At  the  foot  of  Mont  Justicier,  near  to  the  gallows 
and  by  the  side  of  the  actual  Roman  road,  is  the  little 
chapel  of  St.  Roch.  It  is  a  very  ancient  chapel  and  its 
years  weigh  heavily  upon  it,  for  it  has  nearly  come  to 
the  end  of  its  days.  It  is  built  of  rough  stones  beneath 
a  coating  of  plaster  and  has  a  cove  roof  covered  with 
red  tiles.  The  base  of  the  altar  still  stands,  traces  of 
frescoes  can  be  seen  on  the  walls  and  on  one  side  of  the 
altar  is  an  ambry  or  small,  square  wall-press.  It  was  in 
this  sorrowful  little  chapel  that  criminals  about  to  be 
executed  made  confession  and  received  the  last  offices  of 
the  Church. 

A  sadder  place  than  this  in  which  to  die  could  hardly 
be  realised.  The  land  around  is  so  harsh,  the  hill  so 
heartless,  the  spot  so  lonely.  And  yet  many  troubled 
souls  have  here  bid  farewell  to  life  and  have  started  hence 
on  their  flight  into  the  unknown.  Before  the  eyes  of 
the  dying  men  would  stretch  the  everlasting  sea.  On 
the  West — where  the  day  comes  to  an  end — the  world 
is  shut  out  by  the  vast  bastion  of  the  Tete  de  Chien ;  but 
on  the  East,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  all  is  open  and 
welcoming  and  full  of  pity.     It  is  to  the  East  that  the 

263 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

closing  eyes  would  turn,  to  tHe  East  where  the  dawn 
would  break  and  where  would  glow,  in  kindly  tints  of 
rose  and  gold,  the  promise  of  another  day. 

There  is  one  lonely  tree  on  this  Hill  of  Death — a 
shivering  pine ;  while,  as  if  to  show  the  kindliness  of 
little  things,  some  daisies  and  a  bush  of  wild  thyme  have 
taken  up  their  place  at  the  foot  of  the  gallows. 


264 


/  H 


THE    CHAPEL   OF   ST.  ROGH. 


XXXVI 

MENTONE 

MENTONE  is  a  popular  and  quite  modern  resort 
on  the  Riviera  much  frequented  by  the  English 
on  account  of  its  admirable  climate.  Placed 
on  the  edge  of  the  Italian  frontier  it  is  the  last  Medi- 
terranean town  in  France.  It  lies  between  the  sea  and 
a  semicircle  of  green  hills  upon  a  wide  flat  which  is 
traversed  by  four  rough  torrents.  It  is,  on  the  whole,  a 
pleasant  looking  place  although  it  is  not  so  brilliant  in 
colour  as  the  posters  in  railway  stations  would  make  it. 
It  is  seen  at  its  best  from  a  distance,  for  then  its  many 
dull  streets,  its  prosaic  boulevards  and  its  tramhnes  are 
hidden  by  bright  villas  and  luxuriant  gardens,  by  ruddy 
roofs  and  comfortable  trees.  Standing  up  in  its  midst  is 
the  old  town  which  gives  to  it  a  faint  suggestion  of  some 
antiquity. 

This  old  town,  together  with  the  port,  divides  Mentone 
into  two  parts — the  West  and  the  East  Bays.  The 
inhabitants  also  are  divided  into  two  sections — the  West- 
bayers  and  the  Eastbayers,  and  these  two  can  never  agree 
as  to  which  side  of  the  town  is  the  more  agreeable.  They 
have  fought  over  this  question  ever  since  houses  have 
appeared  in  the  two  disputed  districts  and  they  are  fight- 
ing on  the  matter  still.     The  Westbayer  wonders  that 

the  residents  on  the  East  can  find  any  delight  in  living, 

265 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

while  the  Eastbayer  is  surprised  that  his  acquaintance  in 
the  other  bay  is  still  unnumbered  with  the  dead.  I  had 
formed  the  opinion  that  the  Western  Bay  was  the  more 
pleasant  and  the  more  healthy  but  Augustus  Hare  crushes 
me  to  the  ground  for  he  writes,  "  English  doctors — 
seldom  acquainted  with  the  place — are  apt  to  recommend 
the  Western  Bay  as  more  bracing ;  but  it  is  exposed  to 
mistral  and  dust,  and  its  shabby  suburbs  have  none  of  the 
beauty  of  the  Eastern  Bay.*'  So  I  stand  corrected,  but 
hold  to  my  opinion  still. 

Hare  is  a  little  hard  on  Mentone  by  reason  of  its  being 
so  painfully  modern.  "  Up  to  I860,"  he  says,  "it  was 
a  picturesque  fishing  town,  with  a  few  scattered  villas  let 
to  strangers  in  the  neighbouring  olive  groves,  and  all  its 
surroundings  were  most  beautiful  and  attractive;  now 
much  of  its  two  lovely  bays  is  filled  with  hideous  and 
stuccoed  villas  in  the  worst  taste.  The  curious  old  walls 
are  destroyed,  and  pretentious  paved  promenades  have 
taken  the  place  of  the  beautiful  walks  under  tamarisk 
groves  by  the  sea-shore.  Artistically,  Mentone  is  vul- 
garised and  ruined,  but  its  dry,  sunny  climate  is  delicious, 
its  flowers  exquisite  and  its  excursions — for  good  walkers 
— are  inexhaustible  and  full  of  interest."^ 

There  can  be  few  who  will  not  admit  that  the  modern 
town  of  Mentone  is  commonplace  and  rather  character- 
less, but,  at  the  same  time,  it  must  be  insisted  that  a  large 
proportion  of  the  Mentone  villas  are — from  every  point 
of  view — charming  and  free  from  the  charge  of  being 
vulgar. 

Some  indeed,  with  their  glorious  gardens,  are 
serenely  beautiful.     With  one  observation  by  Mr.  Hare 

i"The  Rivieras,"  London,  1897,  p.  82. 
266 


z 

o 


Q 

o 


z 

o 

H 
Z 

u 


Mentone 

every  visitor  will  agree— that  in  which  he  speaks  of 
the  country  with  which  Mentone  is  surrounded.  It  is 
magnificent  and  so  full  of  interest  and  variety  that  it  can 
claim,  I  think,  to  have  no  parallel  in  any  part  of  the 
French  Riviera. 

Mentone  is  a  quiet  place  that  appears  to  take  its 
pleasure  demurely,  if  not  sadly.  It  is  marked  too  by  a 
respectability  which  is  commendable,  but  at  the  same 
time  almost  awe-inspiring.  Perhaps  its  nearness  to 
Monte  Carlo  makes  this  characteristic  more  prominent. 
If  Monte  Carlo  be  a  town  of  scarlet  silks,  short  skirts 
and  high-heeled  shoes  Mentone  is  a  town  of  alpaca  and 
cotton  gloves  and  of  skirts  so  long  that  they  almost  hide 
the  elastic-side  boots. 

There  is  a  class  of  English  lady — elderly,  dour  and 
unattached — that  is  comprised  under  the  not  unkindly 
term  of  "  aunt."  They  are  propriety  personified.  They 
are  spoken  of  as  "worthy."  Although  not  personally 
attractive  they  are  eminent  by  reason  of  their  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  economics  of  life  abroad.  To  them 
those  human  mysteries,  the  keeper  of  the  pension ^  the 
petty  trader  and  the  laundress  are  as  an  open  book.  They 
fill  the  frivolous  bachelor  with  reverential  alarm,  but 
their  acquaintance  with  the  rate  of  exchange,  the  price 
of  butter  and  the  cheap  shop  is  supreme  in  its  intricacy. 
These  "aunts"  are  to  be  found  in  larger  numbers  in 
Mentone  than  in  any  other  resort  of  the  English  in 
France. 

The  old  town  of  Mentone  is  small  and  circumscribed. 
It  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  place  as  a  low  hillock  or 
promontory.  In  relation  to  the  rest  of  Mentone  it  is  like 
the  brown  body  of  a  butterfly  whose  gaudy  wings  are 

267 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

spread  over  the  West  Bay  on  the  one  side  and  the  East 
Bay  on  the  other. 

The  history  of  Mentone  is  meagre  and  of  Httle  interest. 
Compared  with  neighbouring  towns  it  is  of  no  great 
antiquity.  The  Romans  passed  by  the  site  on  which  it 
stands  without  a  halt.  The  Lombards  and  the  Saracens 
left  the  spot  alone  for  it  offered  no  attractions  to  the 
neediest  robber.  According  to  Dr.  Miiller,  whose 
work  on  Mentone  is  above  praise,  there  is  no  mention 
of  the  town  in  the  old  chronicles  until  the  commence- 
ment of  the  thirteenth  century.  It  was  a  small  place 
but  poorly  fortified  and  therefore  little  able  to  protect 
itself.  It  became  in  consequence  the  victim  of  any 
tyrant  in  the  country  round  and  its  experience  of 
tyranny  must  have  been  long-enduring  and  acute. 

.It  seems  to  have  belonged  first  to  Ventimiglia  and 
then  to  have  been  the  property  of  the  Vento  family  of 
Genoa.  Later  it  came  under  the  rule  of  the  Counts  of 
Provence  and  in  1346  was  purchased  by  Carlo  Grimaldi 
of  Monaco  for  sixteen  thousand  gold  florins.  It  re- 
mained a  part  of  the  principality  of  Monaco  for  some 
hundreds  of  years.  It  was  but  slightly  disturbed  by  the 
wars  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  because 
it  was  so  little  worth  fighting  about.  In  1848  the  whole 
population  of  Mentone,  under  the  leadership  of  the 
Chevalier  Trenca,  rose  against  the  oppression  of  the 
Grimaldi  and  the  town  became,  with  Roquebrune,  a 
repubHc.  Finally  it  was  sold  by  Monaco  to  France  in 
1861  for  the  sum  of  four  million  francs  and  there  its 
story  ends. 

The  best  general  view  of  Mentone  is  to  be  obtained 
from  the  pier.     Between  the  East  Bay  and  the  West 

268 


< 

H 

< 


Z 
o 

H 

z 


Mentone 

stands  the  old  town,  a  heap  of  drab  houses  and  red 
roofs,  piled  up  in  the  form  of  a  mound  on  the  summit 
of  which  are  St.  Michael's  Church  and  the  plume-like 
cypresses  of  the  old  cemetery.  Behind  this  drab  town 
are  two  green  hills,  round  and  low — St.  Vincent  and 
Les  Chappes ;  and  beyond  again — shutting  out  the 
world — are  the  ash-grey  slopes  of  the  Maritime  Alps. 
To  the  west  is  the  massif  of  Mont  Agel  and  the  crag  of 
St.  Agnes ;  while  to  the  east  is  the  towering  height  of 
the  Berceau. 

The  old  town  is  small,  but  it  has  the  merit — rare  in 
these  parts — of  being  clean  and  free  from  ' '  the  evil 
smell "  of  which  Mr.  Hare  has  complained.  It  is 
ItaHan  in  character  and,  owing  to  its  place  on  a  hill,  is 
made  up  of  steep  lanes  and  many  stairs,  of  headlong 
passages  and  vaulted  ways.  The  numerous  arches  that 
cross  the  streets  are  the  outcome  of  an  experience  of 
earthquakes  painfully  acquired  in  years  gone  by.  At 
the  foot  of  the  town  is  the  Place  du  Cap  out  of  which 
certain  undecided  old  lanes  ramble  to  the  sea,  with  the 
rolling  gait  of  unsteady  mariners.  Among  these  the 
Ruelle  Giapetta  and  the  Rue  du  Bastion  are  notable 
by  their  picturesqueness. 

The  way  up  to  the  old  town  is  by  the  steps  of  the 
Rue  des  Logettes.  The  first  street  encountered  is  the 
Rue  de  Brea.  It  is  a  mean  street,  but  it  is  occupied 
by  houses  which  have  been,  at  one  time,  among  the 
most  pretentious  in  Mentone.  At  No.  3  Napoleon 
lodged  during  the  Italian  campaign.  It  is  a  large 
building  of  four  stories  with  a  fine  doorway  in  white 
stone.  It  is  now  given  up  to  poor  tenants  who  hang 
their  washing  out  of  the  windows.     At  No.  2,  a  private 

269 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

house  in  comfortable  state,  General  Brea  was  born  in 
1790.  He  was  one  of  Napoleon's  generals,  was  at 
Leipzig  and  Waterloo  and  was  assassinated  in  Paris  on 
June  24th,  1848.  On  the  wall  of  a  garden  in  the  Rue 
Brea  is  a  marble  tablet  to  commemorate  the  visit  of 
Pius  VII  in  1814.  The  Pope  was  returning  to  Rome 
after  his  long  exile  in  France  and  it  was  from  the 
terrace  of  this  garden  that  he  blessed  the  people  crowd- 
ing in  the  street.  While  dealing  with  famous  people  it 
may  be  noted  that  in  the  Rue  St.  Michel  (No.  19)  is 
the  house  in  which  the  Chevalier  Carlo  Trenca  was  bom, 
the  president  of  the  short-lived  Republic  of  Mentone. 

The  most  important  and  most  interesting  street  of 
old  Mentone  is  the  Rue  Longue.  It  runs  athwart  the 
east  side  of  the  hill,  mounting  very  easily  to  the  St. 
Julien  Gate  which  is  just  below  the  old  cemetery.  The 
street  is  paved,  is  some  twelve  feet  in  width  and  is 
entered  from  the  Logettes  by  a  dim  passage.  The 
street  is  a  little  dark,  because  the  houses  on  both  sides 
of  it  are  tall.  This  Rue  Longue  follows  the  route  of 
the  old  Roman  road.  Until  1810  it  was  the  only 
carriageable  street  between  the  East  and  the  West  Bays 
and  the  only  coast  road  between  Italy  and  Provence. 

It  was  the  Park  Lane  of  Mentone,  the  fashionable 

street  in  which  were  the  palaces  of  the  nobles  and  the 

houses  of  the  rich.     The  humbler  dweller  in  Mentone 

would   hardly   dare   put  foot   in  it,   because   it  was  so 

grand    and    so    exclusive.      Here    *'  before    the    great 

Revolution,  the  ladies  of  Mentone  used  to  sit  out  and 

work  in  the  open  air,  just  as  the  peasants  do  now,  before 

the  doors   of  the  houses  or   (one   is  expected   to   say) 

palaces.      A    letter   of   the    last   century    describes   the 

270 


Mentone 

animated  appearance  which  this  gave  to  the  place  in 
those  days,  the  gentlemen  stopping  to  chat  with  each 
group  as  they  passed  .  .  .  while  the  nights  were  en- 
livened by  frequent  serenades,  which  were  given  under 
the  windows  of  pretty  girls  by  their  admirers."^ 

This  picture  is  very  difficult  to  realise  for  the  Rue 
Longue  is  now  a  humble  street  that  the  fastidious  would 
probably  call  a  slum.  There  are  one  or  two  little  shops 
in  it,  but  the  houses  are,  for  the  most  part  turned  into 
tenements  for  a  very  densely  packed  population.  The 
buildings  are  of  stone  covered  unhappily  with  plaster ; 
but  they  nearly  all  show  traces  of  an  exalted  past. 
There  are  many  fine  entries  of  stone  with  either  a 
pointed  or  a  rounded  arch  and  a  few  windows  which 
recall  better  days.  The  typical  house  has  an  arched 
doorway  from  which  ascends  a  stone  stair  whose  summit 
is  lost  in  darkness.  It  leads  obviously  to  the  door  of  the 
dwelling,  the  ground  floor  being  devoted,  in  old  days, 
to  stables  or  offices.  There  is  in  the  Rue  Longue  a 
shop  of  the  mediaeval  type,  such  as  has  been  described 
in  the  account  of  St.  Paul  du  Var  (page  101).  Over 
the  portal  of  one  house  is  the  date  1542  and  over 
another  that  of  1543.  The  house  No.  123  was  the 
palace  of  the  princes  of  Monaco.  It  bears  the  initials 
of  Honorius  II  and  the  date  1650.  Within  is  a  fine 
stone  stair  with  a  vaulted  ceiling.  Among  the  more 
picturesque  streets  of  the  town  may  be  mentioned  the 
Rue  du  Vieux  Chateau,  the  Rue  de  la  Cote  and  the 
Rue  Lampedouze. 

The  Rue  Longue  ends  at  the  main  gate  of  the 
town — the  Porte  St.  Julien.     The  gate  itself  has  been 

i"A  Winter  at  Mentone." 
271 


Ihe  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

modernised  and  is  represented  only  by  an  archway  of  a 
quite  unassuming  type.  Leading  up  from  this  portal 
to  the  old  cemetery  is  a  wall  in  which  are  traces  of  the 
enceinte  of  the  old  fortress.  The  stronghold,  built  (Dr. 
Miiller  states)  between  1492  and  1505,  occupied  the 
summit  of  the  hill  on  which  the  old  cemetery  now  stands. 
Here  can  be  seen  portions  of  the  castle  wall  which  have 
become  incorporated  with  the  structure  of  this  strangely 
placed  burial  ground. 

A  flight  of  steps  from  the  Rue  Longue  leads  to  St. 
Michael's  Church.  The  original  church  was  built  in 
1619,  but  was  almost  entirely  destroyed  by  the  great 
earthquake  of  1887,  after  which  date  the  present  church 
was  constructed.  It  is  an  ambitious  building  in  an 
indefinite  "  classic  "  style  and  presents  no  features  of 
interest.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the  two  other 
churches  in  the  old  town — those  of  the  Penitents  Blancs 
and  of  the  Penitents  Noirs. 

The  gallant  old  fort  that,  in  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury, guarded  Mentone  on  the  side  of  the  sea  has  been 
almost  engulfed  in  the  building  of  the  new  pier.  It  is 
now  merely  a  grey,  patched-up  ruin,  standing  on  the 
rocks  by  the  water's  edge  and  ignominiously  held  up 
behind  by  the  officious  pier.  Its  little  barred  windows 
are  curious,  while  on  its  summit  can  still  be  seen  some 
traces  of  its  sentry  towers. 


272 


n  \^F'  1  ^^^^^^^1 

'J     •'  '■■- 

^^H 

\      : 

^^ 

-s 

t 

1 

s 

^^B      mIS^^^^^^^^^^^H 

II                1 

1   '# 

'3iM-'      ■;■ 

\^ 

^Hs''  ^B 

^«.- 

ib^iilkHr       jy 

I^^B ««  j 

r   fl 

MENTONE  :    RUE   LONGUE. 


XXXVII 

THE  FIRST  VISITORS  TO  THE  RIVIERA 

THERE  is  great  fascination  about  a  very  ancient 
human  dwelling-place.  It  stands  out  among  the 
blank  shadows  of  the  past  as  a  warm  reality,  a 
lingering  spark  still  aglow  among  the  ashes  of  things 
that  once  had  been.  There  is  about  it  the  charm  of  a 
memory  that  is  partly  real  and  partly  only  dreamed 
about.  Strange  as  the  venerable  place  may  be  it  comes 
quite  naturally  into  the  story  of  our  common  ancestry. 
It  seems,  in  some  indefinite  way,  to  be  a  family  posses- 
sion which  we  can  regard  with  a  personal  interest  and 
a  legitimate  curiosity.  Amidst  the  changes  and  upheavals 
of  everyday  life  there  is  about  the  old  house  a  comfortable 
assurance  of  the  continuity  of  human  existence  and  of 
our  individual  claim  upon  those  who  have  trod  before  us 
the  great  highway. 

Such  an  ancient  abode  of  men  is  to  be  found  at 
Mentone,  at  a  spot  called,  in  the  local  speech,  the 
Baousse-Rousse.  The  English  would  term  the  place  the 
Red  Cliff.  The  Red  Cliff  is  just  beyond  the  tragical 
looking  chasm,  with  its  babyish  stream,  that  marks  the 
frontier  of  France.  It  stands,  therefore,  in  Italy.  It 
is  a  formidable  cliff  of  great  height,  as  erect  as  a  wall, 
as  defiant  as  a  Titanic  bastion.  It  rises  sheer  from 
the  rugged  beach  and  is  as  old  as  the  sea.  It  has  been 
s  273 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

scraped  smooth  by  the  wind  of  a  miUion  years,  and  may 
have  been  once  scoured  clean  by  the  rain  of  Noah's 
deluge.  It  is  bare  of  vegetation,  except  that,  here  and 
there,  a  pitying  weed,  lavish  with  yellow  blossoms, 
clings  tenderly  to  its  scarred  surface.  About  its  foot  are 
a  few  palms,  a  tall  aloe,  and  some  bushes  with  scarlet 
flowers.  The  colour  of  the  cliff  is  a  tawny  grey,  stained 
with  red  of  the  tint  of  ancient  rust.  There  are  long 
seams,  too,  on  its  surface  which  suggest  the  wrinkles 
of  extreme  old  age. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  precipice  are  certain  caverns 
which  were  once  the  abodes  of  men.  These  caves  are 
about  nine  in  number;  so  that  at  one  time  the  Red 
Cliff  must  have  been  quite  a  little  town,  for  the  caverns 
are  capacious.  The  entrances  to  the  caves  are,  for  the 
most  part,  in  the  form  of  huge  clefts  in  the  rock  from 
twenty  feet  to  sixty  feet  high.  They  face  towards  the 
south,  so  that  at  noon  a  streak  of  light  can  penetrate 
into  the  vast  stone  hall  and  illumine  its  floor.  When 
the  sun  has  passed  each  portal  becomes  no  more  than 
a  black  gap  in  the  precipice,  very  mysterious  to  look 
upon. 

The  people  who  inhabited  these  caves  belong  to  our 
earliest  known  ancestors.  They  stand  at  the  root  of  the 
family  tree.  They  represent  the  Adam  and  Eve  of 
human  history.  Behind  these  people  stretches  the  void 
of  the  unknown.  It  is  in  their  likeness  that  the  first 
human  being  steps  out  of  the  everlasting  darkness  into 
the  light  of  the  present  world. 

They  are  known  as  the  Palaeolithic  folk — the  cavern 
people,  the  men  and  women  of  the  rough  Stone  Age. 
Their  finest  implements  and  most  cunning  weapons  were 

274 


MENTONE  :  A  DOORWAY  IN  THE  RUE  LONGUE. 


The  First  Visitors  to  the  Riviera 

of  unpolished  flint.  They  had  a  knowledge  of  fire. 
These  two  possessions  express  the  meagre  progress  they 
had  made  in  the  march  of  civilisation. 

There  are  certain  skeletons  of  these  cliff-folk  in  the 
Museum  at  Monaco.  It  is  a  memorable  moment  when 
one  first  has  sight  of  men  who  were  alive  some  50,000 
years  ago,  and  who,  after  interminable  centuries,  have 
just  come  again  into  the  light  of  day  and  the  company 
of  their  kind.  It  is  at  least — in  the  records  of  the 
human  family — a  curious  meeting,  a  meeting  rendered 
almost  dramatic  when  one  sees  a  dainty  French  lady  in 
the  mode  of  1920  peering  through  a  glass  case  into  the 
face  of  an  ancestor  who  walked  the  shores  of  France  in 
an  age  so  remote  as  to  be  almost  mythical. 

There  is  an  impression  with  some  that  these  people 
of  long  ago  were  brutish  creatures,  ape-like  and  uncouth, 
being  little  more,  in  fact,  than  gorillas  with  a  leaven 
of  human  craft.  The  Red  Cliff  skeletons,  however,  are 
not  the  skeletons  of  brutes.  They  show,  on  the  contrary, 
the  characteristic  features  of  the  bones  of  the  man  and 
woman  of  modern  times.  Such  differences  as  exist  are 
slight.  There  are  the  same  straight  back,  the  broad 
shoulders,  the  well-balanced  head,  the  finely  proportioned 
limbs,  the  delicate  feet  and  hands.  This  skeleton  of  a 
Red  Cliff  man  might  have  been  that  of  a  modern 
athlete,  but  with  a  muscular  development  that  the 
modern  would  envy ;  while  this  shapely  woman,  from 
the  depths  of  a  cave,  might  have  graced  in  life  the 
enclosure  at  Ascot.  There  are  some  peculiarities  in  the 
shinbone,  but  I  doubt  if  they  would  be  noticeable  even 
through  a  silk  stocking.  The  skull  is  different,  the  face 
is   flat,    the    nose    broad,    the    forehead    low,    the    jaws 

275 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

prominent.  From  the  Ascot  standpoint  it  must  be 
allowed  that  the  cave  folk  had  ugly  faces,  coarse  and 
unintellectual  no  doubt,  but  not  the  aspect  of  the 
gorilla. 

Among  the  skeletons  from  the  colony  at  Mentone 
is  one  of  especial  interest.  It  is  that  of  an  old  woman 
whose  body  was  found  in  the  deepest  part  of  the  cavern, 
and  who,  therefore,  may  be  assumed  to  have  belonged 
to  the  earliest  or  most  ancient  of  the  inhabitants.  She 
is  perfectly  and,  indeed,  finely  formed.  Her  age  would 
be  about  seventy.  It  is  to  be  noted  incidentally  that 
the  bones  show  no  evidences  of  gross  rheumatic  changes 
nor  of  other  disabling  trouble.  That  an  old  lady  could 
live  for  seventy  years  in  a  damp  cave,  in  a  chilly  climate, 
and  escape  such  inconveniences  is  a  sign  of  her  time  and 
of  ours. 

It  is  not  known  at  what  age  Eve  died,  but  if  she 
reached  the  term  of  three  score  years  and  ten  these 
perfect  and  undisturbed  bones  may  be  imagined  to  be 
those  of  the  Mother  of  Men.  Eve  is  generally  depicted 
by  the  sculptor  as  an  elegant  lady  with  a  noble  Greek 
face,  in  which  is  realised  the  extreme  of  refinement. 
It  would  probably  be  more  exact  if  our  first  mother 
were  shown  in  the  form  of  a  stalwart  woman  with  the 
countenance  of  the  Australian  aborigines  or  of  a 
Hottentot. 

The  lady  of  Mentone  has  around  her  forearm  two 

bracelets.    They  are  made  of  sea  shells  and  are  just  such 

as  an  ingenious  child  might  make  while  sitting  on  the 

beach   in   an   idle   summer.     One   might    suppose   that 

the   wearer  was   proud  of  them,   and  it  may   be  that 

vanity   in   woman   and   love   of  dress — or,    at   least,   of 

276 


/ 


/ 


A   SIDE   STREET   IN   MENTONE. 


The  First  Visitors  to  the  Riviera 

jewellery — are  born  with  her.  If  this  be  so,  it  is  a  pity 
that  the  wearer  of  the  bracelets  could  not  have  known, 
in  her  lifetime,  that  her  cherished  ornaments  would  still 
be  on  her  arm  and  would  still  be  gazed  upon  by  men 
50,000  years  after  she  had  ceased  to  be. 

It  is  a  matter  of  interest  and  indeed  of  present  envy 
to  note  how  perfect  are  the  teeth  of  these  early  folk, 
how  strong  they  are,  how  solidly  they  are  ground  down. 
They  must  have  gnawed  the  bones  of  the  mammoth,  of 
the  cave  bear,  and  of  the  woolly  rhinoceros,  for  the 
remains  of  such  animals  are  abundant  in  the  dust  heaps 
of  these  caverns.  The  standard  of  comfort  in  the  com- 
mune of  Red  Cliff  was  low,  for  it  has  to  be  recognised 
that  not  only  did  whole  families  occupy  one  apartment, 
but  in  that  apartment  they  cooked  their  food,  deposited 
their  refuse,  and  buried  their  dead. 

In  looking  at  these  very  venerable  ancestors  it  is  the 
face  that  naturally  attracts  the  greater  attention.  There 
is  some  expression  in  a  skull,  an  expression  of  melancholy 
and  surprise,  with  a  suggestion  of  ferocity.  Conspicuous, 
especially,  is  the  look  of  wonder,  the  open  mouth,  the 
staring  teeth,  the  solemn,  hollow  eye  sockets.  What 
images  must  have  been  formed  within  those  sunken 
orbits !  Upon  what  a  world  must  the  vanished  eyes 
once  have  gazed,  upon  what  strange  beasts,  upon  what 
fantastic  glades  and  woods ! 

When  the  Red  Cliff  was  inhabited  the  sea  was 
probably  at  some  distance.  From  the  entry  to  the  cave 
one  would  have  looked,  at  one  age,  over  a  luxurious  sub- 
tropical country,  glaring  with  heat,  and  at  another  era 
over  a  land  chilled  with  ice  and  deep  in  snow.  During 
the  lifetime  of  the  old  lady  of  the  bracelets  the  climate 

277 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

is  assumed  to  have  been  cold  and  damp,  the  cHmate, 
indeed,  of  England  at  its  worst.  There  must  be,  there- 
fore, a  bond  of  sympathy  between  the  aged  dame  and 
the  present  day  migrant,  who  has  fled  to  the  Riviera  to 
escape  a  British  winter. 

The  dwelling  places  of  these  very  early  Riviera 
visitors  are  still  practically  unchanged.  We  enter  by 
the  same  portal  as  they  did;  we  tread  the  floor  they 
trod,  and,  looking  up,  we  see  the  very  roof  of  rock  that 
sheltered  them  and  that  they  knew  so  well. 

The  great  cave — the  Barma-Grande — has  a  fine 
entry,  sixty-five  feet  in  height  and  some  thirteen  feet 
in  breadth.  The  cave  is  still  deep,  although  its  length 
has  been  curtailed  by  the  callous  quarryman,  who  has 
cut  away  much  of  the  outer  face  of  the  cliff  to  find  stone 
for  villas,  railway  bridges,  and  motor  garages.  The  cave 
narrows  down  to  a  smooth-sided  cleft  a  few  feet  wide. 
This  must  have  been  a  favourite  spot,  a  cosy  corner,  an 
easy  lounge  after  a  day's  hunting. 

The  sun  passes  over  the  cavern  wall  as  over  the  face 
of  a  dial,  moving  inch  by  inch  just  as  it  has  moved, 
day  by  day,  for  unknown  thousands  of  years.  The 
creeping  light  serves  to  record  on  the  rock  the  passing 
of  time.  The  cave- wife,  busy  with  flint  scraper  and 
unwieldy  lumps  of  mammoth  flesh,  would  note,  perhaps 
with  concern,  that  the  sun  had  already  reached  a  certain 
grey  boss  on  the  wall  which  told  that  the  height  of  the 
day  was  near  and  yet  that  the  daily  meal  was  not  ready. 
The  sun  still  falls  on  the  same  spot  on  the  wall  at  the 
same  moment  of  time,  for  neither  the  sun  nor  the  cave 
has  changed. 

Just  in  front  of  the  caves  of  the   Baousse-Rousse, 

278 


z 

o 

< 


oi 

a 
z 

o 

H 
Z 


z 

o 

H 

z 


H 

as 
H 

Q 


The  First  Visitors  to  the  Riviera 

between  their  entries  and  the  sea,  runs  the  old  Roman 
road.  Compared  with  the  colony  of  Red  Cliff  it  is  a 
modern  affair,  for  it  is  only  a  little  more  than  two 
thousand  years  old.  It  ran  from  the  Forum  of  Rome 
to  Aries,  a  distance,  it  is  said,  of  797  miles.  It  carried 
the  Roman  legions  into  Gaul.  It  carried  the  merchant 
adventurers  from  the  East,  together  with  as  miscellaneous 
a  crowd  of  wanderers  as  any  road  in  Europe  bears 
witness  of.  Many  a  Roman  centurion  must  have  rested 
in  these  caves,  many  an  Oriental  pedlar  laden  with 
strange  wares,  many  a  man  of  arms  seeking  his  fortune 
in  the  West,  with  perhaps  a  troubadour  or  two,  a  jester 
bound  to  other  Courts,  or  the  aimless  man  who  followed 
the  Wandering  Jew.  Pirates  have  used  these  caves  for 
their  tragic  affairs,  as  well  as  wreckers  and  honest  fisher- 
men. In  more  recent  times  smugglers  found  hereabout 
convenient  depots  from  which  to  run  their  goods  across 
the  border;  while  frontier  guards  have  been  posted  in 
these  shadows  with  flintlocks  to  watch  for  the  unwary 
buccaneer.  Still  nearer  to  the  present  day  one  can 
imagine  that  the  dolorous  lover  has  carved  his  lady's 
name  upon  the  wall  of  the  cave  by  means  of  a  flint 
implement  which  his  uneasy  foot  had  unearthed  from 
among  the  ancient  dust  of  the  deserted  dwelling-place. 
Could  the  life  and  times  of  the  occupants  of  the  Red 
Cliff  be  written,  from  the  days  of  the  first  inhabitant  to 
the  period  of  to-day,  a  history  of  Europe  would  be 
provided  which  could  never  be  excelled  for  picturesque- 
ness  nor  for  vivid  detail. 

The  environment  of  the  old  colony  is  at  the  moment 
singularly  incongruous.     The  entrance  to  the  principal 

cave  is  walled  up  and  admission  thereto   can  only  be 

270 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

obtained  by  the  payment  of  2f.  per  person.  A  small 
museum,  full  of  precious  bones,  stands  on  the  Roman 
road ;  a  railway  tunnel  penetrates  the  very  heart  of  the 
cliff,  so  that  the  rumble  of  express  trains  disturbs  the 
peace  of  the  dead  who  still  lie  on  the  very  spot  where 
their  bodies  were  laid  long  centuries  ago.  There  is  a 
fashionable  hotel  on  the  summit  of  the  cliff,  and  at  its 
foot  a  popular  restaurant.  From  the  depths  of  the  cave 
the  sound  of  music  can  be  heard  when  the  restaurant  is 
very  exuberant  and  is  offering  especial  cheer. 

If  the  old  lady  with  the  bracelets  were  now  to  stand 
at  the  door  of  her  cave  on  a  starry  night  she  could  see, 
beyond  Mentone,  a  strange  glow  in  the  sky,  the  glow 
from  the  thousand  lights  of  the  gaming-rooms  of  Monte 
Carlo. 


280 


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o 

H 

a 
X 
H 

O 

H 

>^ 

H 

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u 

a: 

H 

z 

o 

CD 
< 

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o 
z 

en 

X 
H 


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H 

CD 

<: 
u 


XXXVIII 

CASTILLON 

AMONG  the  mountains  behind  Mentone  is  a  saddle 
of  rock  wedged  in  between  two  heights  and 
named  the  Col  de  la  Garde.  If  a  Colossus  sat 
astride  of  this  saddle  one  leg  would  be  in  the  Valley  of 
the  Carei,  leading  towards  Mentone,  and  the  other  in 
the  Merlanson  Valley  which  descends  to  Sospel.  The 
col  or  ridge  of  the  saddle  is  2,527  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  sea.  On  a  cone  of  rock  in  the  centre  of  this  ridge 
is  the  ghostly  town  of  Castillon.  The  distance  from 
Mentone  to  Castillon  is  four  miles,  if  measured  by  the 
flight  of  a  bird,  and  nine  and  a  half  miles  if  reckoned  by 
the  ingenious  road.  From  Castillon  to  Sospel  by  road 
is  four  and  a  half  miles,  but  the  descent  is  not  great  for 
Sospel  is  still  1,148  feet  above  the  Mediterranean. 

The  Valley  of  the  Carei  is  picturesque  and  of  no 
little  grandeur.  It  is  a  prodigious  V-shaped  gash  in  the 
earth,  some  half  a  mile  wide  where  it  opens  to  the 
heavens,  some  few  feet  wide  at  its  deepest  depth  where 
the  torrent  cuts  its  way.  The  colouring  of  its  walls  is 
beautiful  in  its  simplicity.  Below  the  blue  of  the  sky 
is  a  cinder-grey  slope  of  bare  cliff  that  dips  into  the  faded 
green  of  the  olive  belt  and  the  sprightlier  green  of  the 
pines;    then   comes    a   strip    of    claret-red    tinged   with 

yellow,  which  marks  the  terrace  of  the  autumn  vines. 

281 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

and  at  the  very  foot  are  the  deep  shadows  by  the  banks 
of  the  stream. 

The  Carei  follows  the  valley  all  the  way.  It  begins 
among  the  vast  silence  of  the  everlasting  hills  and  ends 
by  running  under  the  tramlines  and  the  bandstand  at 
Mentone.  The  road  mounts  up  the  west  bank  of  the 
valley  by  spasmodic  turns  and  twists.  These  are  so 
repeated  and  so  abrupt  as  to  render  any  who  live  where 
paths  are  straight  dazed  and  despairing. 

As  the  col  is  approached  Castillon  stands  up  against 
the  sky  line  like  a  piece  of  dead  bone  sticking  out  of  the 
mound  of  a  grave.  Few  habitations  of  man  occupy  a 
position  quite  so  surprising  as  this  silent  and  deserted 
village.  It  is  the  village  of  a  nightmare,  of  a  fairy  story, 
of  the  country  of  the  impossible.  "  The  town,"  writes 
the  author  of  "  A  Winter  at  Mentone,  "is  as  unlike  a 
town  as  possible  ...  so  that  we  should  scarcely  believe 
it  to  be  a  town  at  all."  It  stands  on  the  summit  of 
a  pinnacle  of  stone  which  is,  in  turn,  balanced  on  the 
knife  edge  of  a  dizzy  col.  From  this  isolated  crag  a 
horrible  ridge  of  rock  trails  down  the  valley  towards 
Sospel  like  the  backbone  of  some  awful  reptile. 

It  is  a  very  ancient  place  for  it  was  occupied  in  the 
time  of  the  Romans.  People  have  lived  in  Castillon  for 
over  2,000  years  and  yet  on  a  certain  day  not  long  ago 
it  was  suddenly  deserted  and  not  a  human  being  has 
ever  returned  to  make  a  home  in  it  since  that  dire 
occasion. 

On  February  23rd,  1887,  Castillon  was  shaken  by  an 
earthquake  and  reduced  in  great  part  to  ruin.  No  one 
appears  to  have  been  killed  in  the  crash,  but  such  was 

the  terror  of  the  inhabitants  that  they  fled  down  the  cliff- 

282 


m 

H 


X 
Z 

o 

H 
< 

u 


Gastillon 

side  and  never  came  back  to  the  town  again.  It  has 
remained  ever  since  as  empty  as  a  skull. 

In  the  Middle  Ages  Castillon  was  maintained  as  a 
fortified  place  by  the  governor  of  Sospel.  It  guarded  the 
pass  that  led  to  the  town  and  stood  in  the  way  of  Sospel's 
most  restless  enemy,  the  Count  of  Ventimiglia.  During 
the  wars  of  the  Guelphs  and  the  Ghibellines  the  fortress 
of  Castillon  suffered  much.  It  was  a  woeful  day  when 
Charles  of  Anjou  obtained  possession  of  it  in  1261  and 
a  still  more  dismal  day  when  he  sold  it  to  that  detested 
ruffian,  Pierre  Balbo  of  Ventimiglia,  since,  in  the  eyes 
of  Sospel,  Castillon  was  the  keeper  of  the  pass,  the  angel 
with  the  flaming  sword  that  stood  in  the  way.  For  no 
vain  reason  did  the  ridge  gain  the  name  of  the  Col  de 
la  Garde. 

Castillon  did  not  remain  long  in  the  hands  of  Venti- 
miglia. It  shared  in  the  vicissitudes  of  endless  conflicts, 
was  in  due  course  taken  by  the  Genoese  and  then  retaken 
by  the  redoubtable  seneschal  of  Provence.  Castillon  was 
ever  a  sturdy  little  place ;  for  even  in  its  earliest  days, 
when  it  was  captured  by  the  Saracens,  the  hardy  natives 
turned  upon  the  invaders,  cast  them  out  and  threw  them 
headlong  down  the  hill.  It  was  not  always  so  very  little, 
since  there  was  a  time  when  it  could  boast  of  no  fewer 
than  seventy-five  houses  and  five  churches.  Where  these 
buildings  found  a  foothold  it  is  hard  to  say.  They  must 
have  clung  to  one  another  with  linked  arms,  like  a  crowd 
of  men  caught  by  a  rising  tide  on  a  steep  and  very 
meagre  rock. 

The  old  Castillon  is  approached  from  the  present 
village  by  a  steep  cart-road  which  winds  round  the  rock, 
or  by  a  still  steeper  mule-path  which  labours  up  witli 

283 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

many  zigzags.  Both  road  and  path  are  overgrown  with 
grass.  They  lead  to  a  flight  of  wide  steps  which  ascends 
to  the  town.  It  forms  quite  a  ceremonial  entry.  There 
is  but  a  single  street.  It  is  a  sorrowful  street,  because  it 
is  so  forlorn  and  so  still.  It  is  as  green  with  grass  as 
a  lane  in  a  wood  and  around  the  doorsteps  of  the  houses 
and  in  every  court  and  alley  nettles  and  brambles  flourish 
with  heartless  luxuriance. 

Half  way  along  the  street  is  the  church.  It  is  small 
and  plain  with  a  roof  of  tiles  and  a  bell  gable  that  lacks 
a  bell.  Over  the  door  is  the  date  1712.  The  church  is 
locked ;  but  so  far  as  can  be  judged  from  the  outer  walls 
it  has  escaped  damage.  The  "  pointed  campanile,"  how- 
ever, which  is  described  and  figured  in  older  accounts  is 
now  no  longer  to  be  seen.  At  the  end  of  the  street,  on 
the  point  that  looks  towards  Sospel,  are  the  ruins  of  the 
castle.  Only  some  vaults  and  some  crumbling  walls 
remain ;  but  a  gateway  of  stone  with  a  pointed  arch  still 
stands  unmoved  amidst  the  chaos  of  destruction.  Many 
houses  are  little  more  than  a  shell  of  bricks,  but  the 
greater  number  seem  to  have  suffered  little.  They  are 
closed.  The  doors,  the  window  frames  and  the  sun 
shutters  are  grey,  because  in  thirty-three  years  every 
trace  of  paint  has  vanished.  Many  of  the  windows  are 
still  glazed. 

To  one  house  clings  a  precarious  balcony  of  wood 
with  half  of  its  rail  intact.  A  few  of  the  dwellings 
are  doorless  and  it  is  possible  to  mount  stairs  laden 
with  debris,  to  enter  rooms  which  seem  to  have 
been  but  recently  left  and  to  climb  down  into  hollow 
chambers  echoing  with  mystery  and  suspicion.  One 
front  door  has  a  slit  for  letters— open  as  if  awaiting  the 

284 


CASTILLON:    THE   MAIN  STREET  AND   CHURCH  DOOR. 


Gastillon 

postman.  It  is  a  trivial  feature  and  yet  it  seems  the 
most  pitiable  mockery  in  the  whole  of  this  street  of  dead 
things. 

The  desolation  of  the  little  town  is  unutterable.  If 
it  were  a  total  ruin  the  human  element  would  be  lost ; 
but  it  is  so  little  a  ruin,  so  like  a  living  village  of  to-day 
— with  the  ashes  of  the  kitchen  fire  still  on  the  hearth — 
that  it  remains  even  now  a  vivid  embodiment  of  a  place 
dumb  with  panic  and  the  fear  of  death. 


285 


XXXIX 

SOS PEL 

SOSPEL  lies  at  the  bottom  of  a  vast  basin-shaped 
valley  by  the  banks  of  the  ever-chattering  Bevera 
river.  The  sides  of  the  valley  are  lined  from  base 
to  summit  with  olive  trees.  It  is  not  a  pretty  valley, 
for  the  green  of  the  olive,  being  sad  and  wan,  suggests 
rather  the  shabby  dreariness  of  old  age.  In  this  sombre 
hollow  Sospel  appears  as  a  patch  of  chocolate-brown. 
The  valley  is  so  immense  and  the  town  so  small  that  it 
is  little  more  than  a  dark  stain  at  the  bottom  of  a  huge 
bowl.  Sospel  has  fallen  far  from  its  high  estate.  It 
was  once  domineering  and  haughty  and  now  it  has 
become  so  humble  and  so  insignificant.  It  once  had  the 
splendour  of  a  soft-petalled  rose,  but  it  has  dwindled  in 
these  days  to  a  mere  pinch  of  dry  and  shrivelled  leaves. 
In  Roman  times  it  was  a  town  of  importance.  It  was 
a  military  station  fully  garrisoned  and  strongly  fortified. 
It  represented  the  mailed  fist  of  Rome  thrust  defiantly 
into  the  land  of  Gaul.  Those  who  are  learned  in  these 
matters  state  that  the  lines  of  the  Roman  ramparts  can 
still  be  traced  about  the  outskirts  of  Sospel,  but  they  are 
no  longer  visible  to  the  eyes  of  the  vulgar. 

After  the  glory  of  Rome  had  passed  away  Sospel 
still  remained  a  commanding  city  and,  throughout  the 

Middle  Ages  and  for  century  after  century,  it  held  its 

286 


o 

Q 

s 

Q 
O 

Cd 

X 

H 


en 
O 

CD 


Sospel 

place  as  a  most  influential  town  in  this  domain  of 
France.  It  became  the  seat  of  a  bishop  as  early  as  1337 
and  Albert! ,  the  historian  of  Sospel,^  tells  of  its  high 
clerics,  of  its  consuls,  of  its  judges  and  of  its  other 
exalted  men.  In  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries 
it  was  a  city  with  many  thousands  of  inhabitants.  It 
was  surrounded  by  high  walls,  had  five  gates  and  many 
strong  towers.  It  could  boast  of  no  fewer  than  one 
hundred  and  sixty-two  shops  and  two  monti  di  pieta.  It 
had  a  cathedral  and  as  many  as  twenty  churches  and 
chapels,  fifteen,  squares,  many  convents  and  monasteries, 
an  academy  and  a  college  for  lawyers.^  A  great  fair  was 
held  every  year  on  St.  Luke's  Day  in  October  in  the 
Piazza  di  San  Michele,  for  Sospel  was  a  centre  of 
commerce  and  of  industry  for  miles  around. 

The  town  has  seen  much  trouble  and  has  endured 
periods  of  stress  and  times  of  calamity.  Indeed  so  sad 
have  been  some  phases  of  its  history  that,  although  it  can 
boast  of  years  of  flamboyant  glory,  it  is  probable  that  its 
happiest  days  are  now,  when  it  has  become  a  village  of 
no  account.  About  the  end  of  the  eighth  century  Sospel 
was  almost  entirely  destroyed  by  fire.  In  1516  it  was 
ravaged  by  the  Gascons  and  reduced,  for  the  time,  to 
a  smouldering  waste.  In  the  sixteenth  century  the 
town  became  prominent  as  a  place  of  horror  by  reason 
of  the  wholesale  burning  of  heretics  in  the  Piazza  di  San 
Michele. 

Possibly  the  most  terrible  calamity  that  befell  Sospel 
was  through  the  visitations  of  the  plague.  The  most 
disastrous  of  these  visits   was  in  the  year   1688.    The 

»  "  Istoria  della  citta  de  Sospello,"  by  S.  Alberti,  Torino,  1728. 
*  "  Mentone,"  by  Dr.  George  MuUer,  London,  1910. 

287 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

people  died  as  if  the  very  air  were  poisoned.  The  streets 
were  deserted ;  the  shops  were  closed.  Those  ,who  knelt 
in  the  church  to  pray  could  hear  above  their  cries  to 
heaven  the  thud  of  the  mattock  and  the  spade  in  the 
graveyard  near  at  hand.  It  seemed  as  if  Sospel  was  to 
be  left  desolate  and  that  in  a  few  dire  weeks  the  river 
would  be  babbling  seawards  through  a  lifeless  town. 

The  elders  of  the  city  met  and  resolved  that  all  the 
inhabitants  of  the  place,  those  whom  the  Terror  as  yet 
had  spared,  should  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Laghet  to 
confess  their  sins  and  implore  the  Madonna  to  intercede 
with  heaven  on  their  behalf.  At  sunrise  one  pleasant 
day  in  July  the  procession  formed  up  outside  the  walls 
and  started  on  its  penitential  march.  It  was  a  hard 
journey  and  very  pitiable.  The  distance  was  great;  for 
even  as  the  bird  flies  it  is  no  less  than  ten  miles  from 
Sospel  to  Laghet. 

There  was  no  road  to  follow,  only  a  rough  path  that 
struggled  over  hills  and  vales,  over  rocks  and  stony 
slopes.  The  poor  distracted  company  would  climb  first 
to  Castillon,  thence  probably  to  Gorbio,  then  on  to  La 
Turbie  and  so  to  Laghet.  It  would  be  an  arduous 
journey  for  a  sturdy  man,  but  for  these  panic-stricken 
folk  it  was  as  cruel  a  passage  as  the  most  relentless  could 
devise. 

In  front  of  the  column  would  walk  the  priests  clad 
in  white  and  bearing  a  cross.  Then  would  come  the 
great  officers  of  the  city  with  the  nobles  of  Sospel,  then 
the  soldiers  and  after  them  the  people  of  the  town. 
Along  the  length  of  the  column  would  break  forth,  again 
and  again,  the  cry,  ''  In  the  name  of  God  on  to 
Laghet!" 

288 


Z 

o 

a: 

> 

2 

K 
H 


cu 

CD 

O 
CA 


Sospel 

There  would  be  old  and  young  in  the  crowd,  boys 
clinging  to  their  mothers'  gowns,  girls  perched  on  their 
fathers'  shoulders  and  pleased  for  a  while  with  the 
unwonted  ride.  The  buxom  maid  would  give  an  arm  to 
her  grandfather,  the  young  husband  a  hand  to  his  falter- 
ing wife.  There  would  be  some  on  mules  and  some  on 
donkeys  and  at  the  wavering  end  of  the  procession  would 
stumble  the  stragglers  who  were  failing  with  every  step. 

Not  a  few  would  be  smitten  with  death  as  they 
walked,  would  drop  out  of  the  throng  and  roll  among 
the  brambles  by  the  way.  None  could  linger  behind  to 
bear  them  company,  for  still  the  cry  would  ring  forth 
along  the  line,  "  In  the  name  of  God  on  to  Laghet !  " 

Think  then  of  the  town  left  behind !  Silent  but  for 
the  heartless  chatter  of  the  stream,  empty  save  for  the 
very  old,  the  very  weak,  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

Sospel,  when  viewed  from  a  height,  appears  (as 
already  stated)  as  a  splash  of  chocolate-brown  on  the 
floor  of  a  grey  valley,  chocolate-brown  being  the  colour 
of  its  roofs.  It  is  a  small  place  of  3,500  inhabitants 
languidly  busy  in  the  construction  of  a  railway  which 
seems  disinclined  to  develop  and  still  more  feebly 
concerned  in  a  golf  course  which  declines  to  "open." 

The  town  is  divided  into  two  parts  by  the  Bevera 
river.  The  quarter  on  the  north  bank  is  poor  and 
resigned  to  a  damp  and  musty  squalor;  while  the  south 
side  of  the  town  contains  all  that  Sospel  can  boast  of  in 
the  matter  of  present  prosperity  and  departed  greatness. 
Two  bridges — one  old  and  one  new — connect  the  towns. 
The  old  bridge  is  picturesque,  being  composed  of  two 
very  ancient  arches  which  have  never  come  to  an  agree- 
ment as  to  what  should  be  their  common  level.     In  the 

T  289 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

centre  of  the  bridge  is  a  little,  old,  surly  tower  which 
forms  an  arch  over  the  road  after  the  manner  of  a 
village  Temple  Bar.  The  tower  has  been  converted,  with 
marked  unsuccess,  into  a  dwelling  house  with  a  bow 
window  and  balcony  on  its  less  dejected  front  and  with 
gaudy  advertisements  on  its  other  sides.  Since  no  one 
appears  to  have  the  courage  to  live  in  this  impossible 
dwelling  it  is  empty.  As  a  tower  to  defend  the  ford  it 
is  a  monument  of  incompetence  and  as  a  house  on  a 
bridge  of  the  type  of  those  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio  at 
Florence  it  is  a  sorry  thing.  It  is  indeed  neither  a  tower 
nor  a  house.     It  is  merely  a  failure. 

The  north  town  is  made  up  of  old  buildings  and 
narrow  lanes  which  are  filled  with  gloom  and  with  a 
smell  so  pressing  that  it  can  almost  be  felt  with  the 
hand.  The  main  lane,  and  the  most  pungent,  is  called 
the  Rue  de  la  Republique.  If  it  be  intended  by  its 
title  to  flatter  the  Republic  of  France  the  compliment  is 
doubtful. 

The  fronts  of  the  houses  that  look  into  the  lane  are 
of  great  antiquity,  but  the  backs  that  look  on  to  the  river 
are  unreasonably  modern.  This  river  front  of  Sospel  is 
one  of  its  most  curious  sights.  The  houses  are  of  four 
stories  and  each  floor  of  each  house  is  provided  with  a 
balcony.  Except  that  they  all  look  fragile  and  unsafe 
and  the  work  of  a  rash  amateur  builder,  no  two  balconies 
are  quite  alike.  One  may  pertain  to  a  kitchen,  another 
to  a  sitting-room  and  a  third  to  a  bedroom  and  each 
balcony  will  contain  the  paraphernalia  proper  to  its 
particular  apartment.  The  united  display  of  utensils 
shows  how  complex  and  exacting  human  life  has  become 
since  the  days  of  the  cave  man.     I  never  before  realised 

290 


X 
u 


CD 

u 

H 

a 

c/:) 

O 
en 


Sospel 

that  so  many  buckets  are  required  to  satisfy  the  needs 
of  a  modern  community. 

Each  balcony  gives  a  demonstration  of  some  phase 
of  domestic  life,  conducted  without  any  prudish  pretence 
at  concealment.  Viewed  as  a  whole  they  form  a  series 
of  little  stages  upon  which  every  episode  of  the  home 
is  being  displayed  in  the  open  air.  On  a  fourth  floor 
balcony  a  woman  will  be  cooking,  while  in  the  balcony 
below  a  young  woman  is  "doing"  her  hair — a  curious 
operation  to  watch  since  she  tugs  at  her  hair  as  if  it 
belonged  to  a  person  she  did  not  like.  On  a  third 
balcony  a  woman  may  be  stuffing  a  chair  or  mending  a 
stocking ;  while  on  yet  another  may  be  witnessed  in  detail 
the  whole  tiresome  process  of  dressing  a  child.  One 
balcony  has  been  turned  into  a  fowl-house  and  another 
is  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  a  vine.  On  all  these 
little  galleries  washing  in  some  stage  is  in  progress  for 
washing  among  these  people  is  like  a  familiar  air  run- 
ning, with  endless  repetitions,  through  the  music  of  a 
comedy  of  life. 

The  main  town  of  Sospel  is  full  of  all  the  interest 

and  charm  that  surrounds  a  relic  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

It  is  made  up  of  unmanageable  little  streets  that  will  run 

where  they  like,  of  lanes  so  dim  that  they  suggest  the 

light  of  a  dying  lamp  and  of  gracious  houses  whose  beauty 

is  soiled  by  grimy  hands  and  marred  by  the  patchwork 

of  poverty,  like  a  fine  piece  of  tapestry  that  has  been 

darned  as  uncouthly  as  a  labourer's  sock.    There  are  black 

passages  as  well  as  brilliant  little  squares,  unaccountable 

stairways  and  mysterious  arcades.     Some  of  the  streets 

are   so    narrow    as    to   be    mere    cracks    in    a    block    of 

houses,  while  two  at  least,  the  Rue  Pellegrini  and  the 

291 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

Rue  du  Chateau,  are  no  more  than  moist,  obscure 
gutters. 

Many  of  the  houses,  although  they  stand  now  in 
mean  streets,  have  evidently  been  public  buildings  of 
importance  or  palaces  of  the  great  people  of  Sospel. 
These  houses  are  built  of  stone,  have  noble  entries  and 
fine  windows,  some  of  which  still  parade  pointed  arches 
and  delicate  columns.  There  is  an  old  mansion  of  this 
type  in  the  Rue  St.  Pierre  which  is  still  magnificent  in 
spite  of  the  humiliating  indignities  to  which  it  has  been 
subjected.  Less  ambitious  houses  show  traces  of  light- 
hearted  decoration  in  the  form  of  arcading  or  other 
fanciful  work  in  stone. 

The  centre  of  the  town  is  the  Place  St.  Michel,  a 
small,  irregular  square  with  the  church  on  one  side  and, 
elsewhere,  a  medley  of  houses  built  over  arcades.  This 
piazza  is  quite  Italian  in  character,  is  rather  dissolute- 
looking  and  bears  many  evidences  of  having  come  down 
in  the  world. 

The  church,  which  is  approached  by  a  flight  of  wide 

steps,    belongs   to    the    seventeenth    century,    has    been 

judiciously  restored  and  has  a  facade  of  no  little  beauty. 

By  its  side  is  a  very  ancient  campanile  of  dingy  grey 

stone  surmounted  by  a  curious  pyramidal  steeple.    It  has 

stood  in  this  square  for  hundreds  of  vivid  years  and  if 

it  could  tell  of  all  that  it  has  seen  it  would  recount  a 

story  tragic  enovigh.     Its  bells  have  many  times  clanged 

forth  the  alarm.    Its  watchman  has  often  screamed  from 

the  tower  that  armed  men  were  swarming  down  the  hill. 

It  has  seen  the  ladies  of  the  town,  in  silks  and  satins, 

step   daintily   across   the   Place   on  their   way   to   Mass 

through  a  crowd  of  cap-doffing  citizens.     It  has  heard 

292 


r 


A   SQUARE   IN   SOSPEL. 


SOSPEL:  THE   RUINS   OF  THE    CONVENT. 


Sospel 

the  consul  read  out  a  proclamation  to  a  sullen  mob, 
while  yells  of  dissent  have  belched  forth  from  the  dark 
arcades  like  a  volley  of  musketry ;  and  more  lamentable 
than  all  it  has  seen  a  sinister  column  of  smoke  rise  out 
of  the  square  from  the  blaze  of  crackling  faggots  upon 
which  shrieking  heretics,  bound  hand  and  foot,  were 
thrown  like  bundles  of  fuel. 

Beyond  the  church,  in  an  untidy  garden,  are  the 
ruins  of  an  old  convent  which  still  show  the  long  colon- 
nade of  the  cloisters  and  the  windows  of  the  upper  rooms. 
Near  by  is  one  of  the  old  square  towers  of  the  town,  a 
mere  shell  of  masonry  that  the  sun  of  centuries  has 
bleached  as  white  as  a  bone.  Alongside  the  tower  runs 
a  section  of  the  city  wall,  pierced  by  a  stone  gateway 
with  a  pointed  arch.  This  mediaeval  entry  is  very 
picturesque ;  for  it  serves  to  show  how  Sospel  looked  to 
the  approaching  traveller  when  it  was  a  fortified  city 
girt  about  by  a  great  wall  with  many  gates  and  many 
towers. 


293 


XL 

SOSPEL  AND  THE  WILD  BOAR 

IT  may  be  of  some  interest  to  state  how  the  affairs 
of  Sospel  became  involved  with  so  curious  a  creature 
as  a  wild  boar,  and  how  the  people  of  Sospel  were 
led  to  have  a  kindly  regard  for  this  particular  species  of 
pig.  In  the  year  1366  a  respected  citizen  of  Sospel 
named  Guglielmo  Viteola  started  off  with  his  son  to  go 
to  Mentone.  On  the  way  they  were  attacked  by  a  gang 
of  robbers  and  the  lad  was  killed.  The  robbers  spared 
Viteola  because  they  considered  that  he  would  be  of  more 
value  to  them  living  than  dead. 

So  they  dragged  him  to  a  cave,  bound  him  hand  and 
foot,  and  left  him  in  a  doleful  heap  on  the  wet  ground. 
They  explained,  with  sarcastic  apologies,  that  they  must 
leave  him  for  a  time  as  they  had  to  proceed  to  Mentone 
on  urgent  business;  but  cheered  him  by  saying  that 
they  would  look  him  up  on  their  return  and  would  then 
do  dreadful  things  to  him  vmless  he  made  agreeable  terms 
for  his  ransom.  Failing  a  comfortable  sum  of  money 
they  explained  that  they  would  either  leave  him  to  starve 
or  would  cut  him  up  in  a  leisurely  way  with  knives  of 
peculiar  grossness  that  they  showed  him.  With  a  cheer- 
ful "a  rivederci  "  they  departed. 

Being  in  grievous  pains  both  of  body  and  mind  Viteola 
began  to  pray  to  his  particular  saint,  St.  Theobald  of 

294 


A   STREET   IN   SOSPEL. 


< 

Q 
Z 

< 

H 
U 

X 
H 


O 


^       .-  -^     *■ 


Sospel  and  the  Wild  Boar 

Mondovi.  (Mondovi,  it  may  be  explained,  is  a  town 
some  fifty  miles  from  Sospel  on  the  way  to  Turin.) 
Viteola  had  hardly  finished  his  prayer  when  something 
or  somebody  rushed  into  the  cave  and  fell  at  his  feet. 
The  darkness  of  the  place  rendered  the  identity  of  the 
intruder  difficult.  From  his  knowledge  of  natural  history 
and  possibly  from  his  sense  of  smell  Viteola  decided  that 
this  visitor  was  a  wild  boar.  The  boar  seemed  fatigued 
and  anxious  to  be  quiet. 

The  animal's  rest  was,  however,  soon  disturbed  for 
in  a  few  moments  five  armed  men  burst  into  the  cave. 
The  cavern  was  becoming  crowded.  Odd  things  are 
often  found  in  caves,  but  these  new  arrivals  seemed  very 
surprised  at  the  combination  of  an  ancient  man  tied  up 
like  a  parcel  in  company  with  a  languid  boar.  They 
requested  Viteola  to  explain  the  unusual  position.  He 
did.  The  aged  man  further  informed  them  that  he  had 
prayed  to  St.  Theobald  for  help,  but  hardly  expected  that 
the  relief  would  take  the  copious  form  of  five  men  and  a 
boar.  He,  at  the  same  time,  begged  to  be  released  from 
his  bonds.  This  was  promptly  done.  Whereupon  the 
more  prominent  of  the  visitors  introduced  himself  as  the 
Lford  of  Gorbio  and  added  that  he  was  out  hunting,  that 
he  had  wounded  a  wild  boar  and  had  followed  the  animal 
to  the  cave. 

The  boar  became  extremely  amiable.  He  may  have 
been  a  little  cool  to  the  Lord  of  Gorbio,  but  towards 
the  old  man  he  made  such  demonstrations  of  affection 
as  a  weary  boar  is  capable  of  making. 

The  party  then  proceeded  to  Sospel.  Their  arrival 
caused  some  amazement,  for  even  in  1366  it  was  unusual 
to  see  a  reigning  prince  walking  down  the  High  Street 

295 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

followed  by  armed  men  and  an  esteemed  citizen  at  whose 
heels  a  wild  boar  was  limping  like  a  faithful  dog.  The 
animal  became  a  great  pet,  but  it  was  probably  a  long 
time  before  Viteola's  wife  was  accustomed  to  the  sight 
of  a  wild  boar  stretched  out  in  front  of  the  sitting-room 
fire. 

When  the  robbers  returned  from  Mentone  and  entered 
the  cave  with  derisive  cheers  and  coarse  laughter  they 
were  surprised  to  find  themselves  seized  by  armed  men 
from  Gorbio  and  their  valued  citizen  gone.  These  wicked 
men  were,  without  any  tedious  inquiry,  hanged  from  a 
tree  which  the  chronicle  states,  with  topographical 
precision,  "  stood  by  the  pathway  leading  from  Sospello 
to  Mentone.'* 


2g6 


XLI 

TWO    QUEER    OLD    TOWNS 

A  LUXURIANT  valley  of  pure  delight  mounts 
inland  from  the  sea  by  Mentone.  It  is  a  happy, 
friendly-looking  valley,  richly  cultivated,  full  of 
orange  groves  and  vineyards,  of  comfortable  gardens  and 
of  merry  mills.  The  valley  ends  suddenly  in  a  vast 
amphitheatre  of  bare  heights  which  shuts  out  all  the 
world  beyond.  As  if  by  a  stroke  of  magic  vegetation 
ceases  and  the  green  becomes  grey.  In  the  centre  of  the 
semicircle  and  on  a  steep  promontory  that  commands 
the  valley  stands  Gorbio,  like  a  monument  at  the  end 
of  an  avenue.  It  is  eight  kilometres  by  road  from  Men- 
tone,  for  the  way  to  it  twists  about  like  a  wounded  snake. 
It  is  difficult  to  determine  what  adjective  should  be 
applied  to  Gorbio.  The  guide  book  says  that  it  is  pic- 
turesque, but  the  "  Concise  Oxford  Dictionary  "  defines 
"picturesque"  as  "fit  to  be  the  subject  of  a  striking 
picture."  Now  there  is  nothing  about  Gorbio  that  is 
fit  for  a  striking  picture.  It  may  be  fit  for  pieces  of  a 
picture  as  they  lie  in  a  toy-box  as  parts  of  a  puzzle  town 
waiting  to  be  put  together.  Then  a  visitor  told  me  that 
Gorbio  was  "awfully  quaint";  but  there  is  little  in 
Gorbio  to  excite  awe  and  the  dictionary  says  that 
"quaint"  means  that  which  is  "piquant  in  virtue  of 

297 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

unfamiliar,  especially  old  fashioned,  appearance."  This 
town  is  happily  of  unfamiliar  appearance  and  is  also 
without  pretence  to  any  fashion  old  or  new,  but  yet 
it  is  not  piquant,  except  in  its  smell. 

It  would  rather  be  called  a  whimsical  town,  a  medley, 
a  revue  of  mediaeval  towns  made  up  of  selected  frag- 
ments, an  ancient  mongrel  of  a  town  of  involved  and 
bewildering  parentage.  It  is  like  three  people  all  talking 
at  once  and  in  different  languages.  Those  who  regard 
a  town  as  a  place  of  habitation  made  by  man,  a  place 
with  streets,  ordered  residences,  a  square,  a  church  and 
public  buildings  would  maintain  that  Gorbio  is  not  a 
town. 

It  begins  well.  It  commences  with  an  orthodox 
square  containing  a  cafe  on  either  side,  an  aged  tree,  a 
fountain,  a  postcard  shop  and  a  sleeping  dog.  All  this 
is  reassuring  and  in  order.  At  one  corner  of  the  Place 
a  few  steps  slope  up  to  a  gateway  with  a  pointed  arch. 
This  also  is  quite  a  normal  entry  to  a  town.  But  once 
inside  the  gate  everything  is  topsy-turvy  and  unexpected. 
You  find  yourself  in  a  lane,  but  it  is  more  like  a  passage 
through  rocks  than  the  high  street  of  a  town.  The  road 
at  once  dives  under  buildings  and  comes  up  in  a  narrow 
square  on  one  side  of  which  is  an  official-looking  Mairie, 
very  modern,  with  walls  of  a  fashionable  yellow,  green 
sun-shutters  and  a  flag  pole.  Opposite  to  it  are  some 
deserted  houses  of  great  age  which  are  in  a  state  of 
advanced  decomposition. 

You  then  come  to  a  damp  and  dark  tunnel.  As  there 
is  a  gleam  of  light  at  the  end  of  it  you  enter  and  are  at 
once  seized  by  a  smell — a  smell  of  Augean  stables.  This 
is  no  ' '  perfume  wafted  on  the  breeze ' ' ;  but  a  smell  that 

298 


OQ 

o 


H 

(73 


2Q 

o 


w 

H 


Two  Queer  Old  Towns 

comes  upon  you  like  a  shriek,  grips  you  by  the  throat 
like  a  highwayman  and  throttles  you.  You  rush  forward 
to  the  open  air  and  stumble  among  houses  made  up  of 
loose  rocks  and  superfluous  doors  propped  up  by  outside 
stairs. 

To  the  right  are  some  steps  climbing  up  through 
another  tunnel  that  may  be  a  passage  in  a  mine.  The 
exploring  spirit  urges  you  to  mount  this  dark  ascent.  You 
come  out  into  a  real  street  with  real  houses  and  even  a 
shop,  but  the  street  is  narrow  and  the  way  is  entirely 
occupied  by  a  live  cow.  The  cow  is  standing  patiently 
outside  a  house  that  has  white  steps  and  a  knocker  and 
seems  to  be  waiting  for  an  answer  to  a  message.  It  has 
a  pleasant  and  motherly  face,  but  appears,  as  to  its  body, 
to  be  of  unreasonable  size.  As  it  is  impossible  to  pass 
the  cow  without  pushing  it  into  a  house  you  return  by 
the  tunnel  to  the  original  route.  This  route  now  takes 
the  form  of  a  country  lane  lined  with  boulders  on  which 
grow  ferns  and  other  plants  of  interest  and  here  incon- 
tinently appears  a  church — a  fine  and  ancient  edifice 
bearing  the  date  1683.  Beyond  the  church  you  find 
yourself — not  in  a  cemetery  but — on  the  ramparts  of  a 
fortified  town  and  finally  by  the  side  of  a  quite  new 
building  of  great  height,  clean  and  formal,  which,  at  first 
sight,  may  be  a  barrack  or  a  soap  factory,  but  there  are 
neither  soldiers  nor  (I  think)  soap  in  Gorbio. 

From  this  point  the  town  becomes  merely  incoherent. 
It  expresses  itself  in  terms  of  delirium.  There  are  streets 
that  go  up  and  down  like  the  hump  of  a  camel,  streets 
that  form  parts  of  circles  and  streets  that  form  parts  of 
squares.  A  map  of  all  the  lanes,  passages,  stairs  and 
tunnels  of  Gorbio  would  look  like  all  the  diagrams  of 

299 


The  Riviera  of  the  Gorniche  Road 

Euclid  mixed  up  together.  The  surface  of  the  town 
reproduces  the  undulations  of  the  waves  of  the  sea.  A 
man  walking  before  you  disappears  and  appears  again 
as  if  he  walked  on  the  ocean.  The  path  may  now  be 
on  a  level  with  the  belfry  of  the  church  and  now  with  the 
main  door.  Indeed  the  church  goes  up  and  down  as 
if  it  were  a  pier  seen  from  the  deck  of  a  rolling  ship. 

It  would  seem  as  if,  at  one  time,  Gorbio  had  been 
in  a  plastic  condition,  like  a  town  made  of  wax,  and 
that  it  had  then  been  ruffled  by  a  hot  and  mighty  wind 
and  its  streets  and  foundations  thrown  into  ripples 
which  have  hardened  into  stone.  It  would  also  seem 
as  if  this  convulsion  had  had  the  effect  of  mixing  up 
the  component  parts  of  a  mediaeval  town  with  more 
modern  structures.  Thrown  up  on  the  summit  of 
Gorbio  is  the  square  tower  of  the  old  castle;  but  it 
is  so  fused  with  stables  and  poor  dwellings  that,  but 
for  its  exquisite  window,  it  might  be  a  hayloft  over  a 
cow-house.  Mule-paths  are  mixed  up  with  vaulted 
passages  and  narrow  lanes  with  cellar  stairs,  a  prison 
wall  with  a  grilled  window  has  become  the  wall  of  a 
cottage,  bits  of  a  feudal  fortress  have  been  melted  up 
with  hovels,  a  fine  arch  of  stone  leads  to  a  donkey- 
shed,  the  portal  of  a  chapter  house  to  a  mean  kitchen, 
while  the  hall  of  a  palazzo  has  become  a  pen  for  goats. 
Forever  above  this  jumble  of  buildings  there  rises,  like 
the  steam  from  a  witches'  cauldron,  the  smell  of  a 
stable  of  so  horrible  a  kind  that  not  even  a  Hercules 
could   cleanse  it. 

Gorbio  is  a  town  of  five  hundred  and  fifty  inhabitants, 
placed  at  a  height  of  1,425  feet  above  the  sea.  It  is 
a  very  ancient  place,  for  Dr.   Miiller  finds  an  account 

300 


A   STREET   IN   ST.    AGNES. 


Two  Queer  Old  Towns 

of  its  castle  as  far  back  as  the  year  1002.  The  town 
has  had  its  full  share  of  misfortunes  and  horrors.  It 
has  been  possessed,  in  turn,  by  the  Counts  of  Ven- 
timiglia,  by  the  Genoese,  by  the  Grimaldi  and  by  the 
great  family  of  the  Lascaris.  Each  change  of  tenancy 
meant  a  more  or  less  liberal  amount  of  bloodshed. 
At  one  time,  namely  in  1257,  it  was  the  property  of 
the  beautiful  Beatrix  of  Provence,  she  who  was 
platonically  beloved  by  the  troubadour  of  Eze  (page  126). 
It  may  be  sure  that  under  the  rule  of  this  gentle 
lady  Gorbio  had  at  least  some  days  of  peace.  It  is 
no  wonder  that  with  all  its  troubles  and  with  all  the 
assaults  it  has  received  it  has  been  battered  out  of 
shape  and  has  become,  in  its  old  age,  so  very  queer. 

A  ragged  mule  path  mounts  up  from  Gorbio  to 
St.  Agnes.  It  is  very  steep  and  its  length  is  measured 
not  by  metres  but  by  minutes ;  for  if  you  ask  how 
far  it  is  to  St.  Agnes  the  answer  is  an  hour  to  an 
hour  and  a  half.  St.  Agnes  as  a  town  is  not  simply 
queer,  it  is  frankly  ridiculous.  It  is  perched  on  the 
sharp  point  of  a  cone  of  precipitous  rock  and,  from 
afar,  looks  like  a  brown  beetle  clinging  to  the  top 
of  a  grey  sugarloaf.  How  it  came  to  be  placed  there 
no  one  can  say,  for  a  cautious  eagle  would  hesitate 
to  make  its  home  at  such  a  height.  If  it  wanted  to 
get  away  from  the  world  it  has  succeeded,  for  it  is 
nearly  out  of  it.  It  can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,  but  rather  on  the  tip  of  its  nose. 

There  are  no  means  of  reaching  St.  Agnes  except 
by  a  mule-path  or  a  balloon.  Nothing  on  wheels  has 
ever  entered  the  precincts  of  the  town.  Thus  it 
happens  that  the  most  curious  "  sights  "  at  St.  Agnes 

301 


The  Riviera  of  the  Corniche  Road 

are  a  piano  and  a  great  chandelier  in  one  of  the  two 
excellent  restaurants  of  the  place.  The  interest  inspired 
by  these  articles  is  not  intrinsic,  but  is  aroused  by 
the  wonder  as  to  how  they  got  there.  The  spectacle 
of  a  mule  toiling  up  a  path,  as  steep  as  a  stair,  with 
a  piano  on  its  back,  followed  by  another  mule  bearing 
a  wide-spreading  chandelier  and  perhaps  by  a  third 
laden  with  a  wardrobe  is  a  spectacle  to  marvel  at. 

St.  Agnes  is  a  town  of  about  five  hundred 
inhabitants  standing  at  an  altitude  of  2,200  feet. 
How  the  people  live  and  why  they  live  where  they 
do  is  an  economic  and  social  problem  of  the  pro- 
foundest  character,  for  the  country  just  around  St. 
Agnes  is  as  bare  as  a  boulder.  The  town  itself  is  of 
the  colour  of  sackcloth  and  ashes,  being  drab  and 
brown.  In  general  disposition  it  is  very  like  Gorbio, 
being  as  old,  as  deranged  and  as  inconsequent.  There 
are  the  same  arcades,  the  same  vaulted  passages,  the 
same  erratic  lanes.  The  church  resembles  the  church 
at  Gorbio.  It  bears  the  date  1744  but  represents  a 
building  many  centuries  older.  High  up  above  the 
town,  on  a  point  of  apparently  inaccessible  rock,  are 
the  ruins  of  the  castle  which  was,  at  one  time,  a 
famous  Saracen  stronghold.  It  is  represented  now  by 
a  few  broken  and  jagged  walls  which  can  hardly  be 
distinguished  from  the  crags  out  of  which  they  spring. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  views  from  St.  Agnes, 
both  towards  the  mountains  and  towards  the  sea, 
are  superb. 

The  place  is  of  great  antiquity.  Its  early  years  are 
legendary,  but  from  the  twelfth  century  onwards  it 
played    a    part— and    no    small    part— in   the    affairs   of 

302 


z 

(/2 


as 


Two  Queer  Old  Towns 

the  world  around  it.  The  details  of  its  life  and  times 
differ  but  slightly  from  those  of  Gorbio ;  for  the 
fortunes  of  the  two  queer  towns  were  closely  linked 
together. 

To  explain  how  St.  Agnes  ever  came  to  exist  it  is 
necessary  to  resort  to  legend  and  to  the  very  hackneyed 
subject  of  the  princess  who  lost  her  way.  The  name 
of  this  particular  royal  lady  was  Agnes.  She  was 
unwisely  making  a  tour  in  this  barren  and  impossible 
country,  when  the  usual  terrific  storm  appeared  with 
the  usual  result — the  lady  lost  her  way.  She  must 
have  lost  it  badly,  for  she  found  herself  near  the 
summit  of  the  crag  upon  which  St.  Agnes  now  stands. 
This  is  equivalent  to  a  person  climbing  up  to  the 
dome  of  St.  Paul's  in  the  hope  of  finding  there  a 
way  that  would  lead  to  Fleet  Street.  The  lady  called 
upon  her  patron  saint,  St.  Agnes,  to  guide  her  to 
shelter  and  was  miraculously  directed  to  a  grotto  near 
the  spot  where  the  town  is  now  established.  Hence 
the  town  and  hence  the  name. 


303 


INDEX 


"  A  Winter  at  Mentone,"  271,  282 
Agel,  Mont,  13,  112,  194,  204,  209,  269 
Alban,  Mont,  Fort  on,  113 
Alberti,    S.,    "  Istoria    della    citta    de 

Sospello,"  287 
Alps,  view  of,  from  La  Grande  Cor- 

niche,  13 
Amadeus  of  Savoy,  Eze  sold  to,  120 
Amilheta  de  Bans,  125 
"Annals,"  by  John  Stowe,  121 
Anne    of     Orleans    pays    homage    to 

"  Our  Lady  of  Laghet,"  233 
Antoin,  Prince,  builds  fort  at  Monaco,l  69 
Arabs  (see  Saracens) 
"  Architecture  of  Provence,"  by  Mac- 
Gibbon,  100 
Aries,  burial  place  of  St.  Trophime  at,  51 
Roman  road  to,  36,  194,  208,  279 
Saracens  at,  4 
Augustus  Csesar  at  Monaco,  143,  144 
monument    at    La    Turbie,    erected 

by,  194,  206,  214  et  seq.,  Ill,  260 
"  Aurelian  Way  "  (see  Via  Aureliana) 
Avignon,  sold  by  Queen  Jeanne  to  the 

Pope,  87 
trial  of  Queen  Jeanne  at,  86 
Aymes,  Count  (Prince  of  Narbonne), 

story  of,  221,  222 

B 

Balbo,  Pierre,   of   Ventimiglia,  pur- 
chase of  Castillon  by,  283 

Bailer,  John,  "  Historical  Particulars 
Relative  to  Southampton,"  121 

Baoussd-Roussd,  the,  Mentone,  Barma- 
Grande  Cave  at,  278 
prehistoric  caves  at,  274  c/  seq. 

U 


Barbarossa,  Hariadan  (Redbeard),  at- 
tack on  Eze  by,  127, 128, 130, 131, 
137 
siege  of  Nice  and,  28,  30,  127 
Barbary  pirates  at  Nice,  20 
"  Barbet,"  history  of  term,  262 
Barcelona,  sacked  by  Carlo  I,  166 
Baring-Gould,  S.  "  Riviera,"  34 
"  Bastard  of  Gorbio,"  and  betrayal  of 
Eze,  129 
attempt   to  betray  La  Turbie    by, 

133 
capture  and  death  of,  133 
Bautucan,  pre-historic  camp  of,  259 
Beatrix  of  Provence,  and  Gorbio,  301 
Beatrix  of   Savoy,  marriage  and  chil- 
dren of,  126 
story  of,  80  ei  seq. 
Beaulieu,  112 
Bellaudidre,  Bellaud  de  la,  memorial 

tablet  to,  at  Grasse,  75 
Bellegarde,  de,   and   Bellanda   Tower, 

Nice,  23 
Bellot,  Jacques  (of  Grasse),  carvings 

by,  at  Vence,  64 
Beranger  (IV),  Raymond,  and  trouba- 
dours of  Eze,  123,  126 
story  of,  80  et  seq. 
war  against  Riviera  towns  by,  125 
Beranger-Feraud,  "  Contes  Populaires 

des  Provengaux,"  by,  80 
Be  vera  River,  289 

Blacas,  troubadour  of  Eze,  122  et  seq., 
141 
marriage  of,  125 
Blacasette,  troubadour  of  Eze,  story 

of,  123  et  seq. 
"  Black  Death  "  at  Vence,  56 
Bonaparte,  Princess  Pauline,  at  Grasse, 
72,  73 


Index 


Bordighera,  Via  Aureliana  at,  208 

as  seen  from  La  Turbie,  216 
Borghese,  Prince,  73 
Boron,  Mont,  31 
Bosio,  Urbain,  "  La  Province  des  Alpes 

Maritimes,"  21,  22,  254 
"  Le  Vieux  Monaco,"  154,  155,  157, 

158,  262 
Bouche,  Honors,  "  La  Chorographie  et 

I'Histoire  de  Provence,"  by,  51 
Br6a,  General,  House  of,  at  Mentone, 

270 
Br^a,     Ludovici,     paintings     by,     at 

Cimiez,  39 
Brianfon  and  Louise  de  Cabris,  88,  89 

quarrel  with  Mirabeau,  95 
Brignole,  Marchesa  di,  at  reception  of 

her  daughter  at  Monaco,  183 
Brignole,    Maria    Caterina,    marriage 

with   Honorius    III    of    Monaco, 

181  et  seq. 
marriage  with  Louis  Joseph,  Prince 

of  Conde,  186 
Burgundians,  invasion  of  Riviera  by,  3 


Cabris,  Castle  of,  72 
Cabris,  Louise  de,  at  convent  of  Sis- 
ter on,  95 

flight  from  France,  95 

House  of,  at  Grasse,  71,  72 

story  of,  87  et  seq. 
Cabris,  Marquis  de,  death  of,  95 

House  of,  in  Grasse,  71 
Cagnes,  Castle  of,  99 

description  of,  97  et  seq. 

inhabitants  reproved  for  dancing  by 
Bishop  of  Vence,  98 

Place  Grimaldi,  98 
Cai's,  Gaspard  de,  and  siege  of  Nice,  33 

attempt  to  betray  La  Turbie  by,  133 

betrayal  of  Eze  by,  128  et  seq.,  137 

capture  and  death  of,  133 
Calais,  siege  of,  168 
Cannes,  Corniche  d'Or,  near,  8 

„       Paganini's  body  taken  to,  116 
Capitaine,  the.  La  Grande  Corniche  at, 

13 
Carei,  Valley  of  the,  281,  282 


Carlo  I  of  Monaco  ("  Charles  the  Sea- 
man ")  and  Monaco,  143,  165 
at  Gibraltar,  168 
at  siege  of  Calais,  168 
attack    on    Southampton   by,    121, 

122 
blockades  Genoa,  166,  167 
death  of,  169 

defeated  by  Duke  of  Genoa,  169 
defeats  Catalans,  166 
defeats  EngUsh  Fleet,  167 
Don  Jayme  HI  and,  168 
fights  Greeks  and  Venetians,  168 
fleet  of,  165  et  seq. 
marriage    with    Lucinetta   Spinola, 

165 
peace  with  Genoa  and,  169 
Pierre  IV  of  Aragon  and,  168 
purchase  of  Mentone  by,  268 
sacks  Barcelona,  166 
sells  Roquebrune  to  Guglielmo  Las- 

caris,  254 
wounded  at  Cr6cy,  168 
Carlone,    Fresco    by,    of     "  Fall    of 

Phaeton,"  at  Cagnes,  100 
Carnival  at  Nice,  16,  17 
Carthaginians  in  Riviera,  1 
Casimir,  Philippe  M.,  "  La  Turbie  et 
son  Troph^e  Remain,"   226,  228, 
229,  230 
Castellan  de  la  Brasca,  Le,  259 
Castellaretto,  the,  259 
Castillon,  captured  by  Charles  of  An- 
ion, 283 
captured  by  Genoese,  283 
captured  by  Saracens,  283 
church  at,  284 
description  of,  281  et  seq. 
earthquake  at,  134,  282 
Romans  at,  282 

sold  to  Pierre  Balbo  of  Ventimiglia, 
283 
Catalans,  attack  on  Monaco  by,  166 
"  Cathedrals     and     Cloisters     of    the 
South  of  France,"  by  E.  W.  Rose, 
50 
Cemenelum  (Cimiez),  Roman  city  of,  20, 

36,  209,  210 
Ceva,  Boniface,  and  siege  of  Nice,  33 
Charlemagne  and  Abbey  of  St.  Pons, 
40 


306 


Index 


Charles  V,  Emperor,  meeting  between 

Pope  Paul  III  and  Francois  I  and, 

28 
siege  of  Nice  and,  29  et  seq. 
Charles  Emmanuel  II,  homage  by,  to 

Our  Lady  of  Laghet,  233 
Charles  of  Anjou,  Prince  of  Provence, 

builds  Naval  Arsenal  at  Nice,  20 
captures  Castillon,  283 
Charles  of  Durazzo  and  Queen  Jeanne, 

87 
"  Charles  the  Seaman  "  {see  Carlo  I) 
Ch&teau  d'lf,  imprisonment  of  Mira- 

beau  in,  91 
Chauve  de  Tourette,  Mont,  13 
Chemin  de  la  Corniche,  Marseilles,  8 
"  Choix  des  Poesies  Orig.  des  Trouba- 
dours," Reynouard,  123 
"  Chorographie  du  Comt6  de  Nice,"  by 

Louis  Durante,  215 
Cimiez,  12 
amphitheatre  at,  36 
foundation  of,  by  Romans,  20,  36, 

209 
Monastery  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  at, 

37 
Claudine,  Princess,  of  Monaco,  story 

of,  170  et  seq. 
Col   d'Eze,   La   Grande   Corniche   at, 

13  5 

Col  de  la  Garde,  281,  283 
Col   des    Quatre  Chemins,  La  Grande 

Corniche  at,  12 
"  Contes  Populaires  des  Proven?aux," 

Beranger-Feraud,  80 
Cook,  T,    A.,  "  Old    Provence,"  180, 

262 
Corniche,  derivation  of,  8 
Corniche  de  Grasse,  8 
Corniche  d'Or,  near  Ganjies,  8 
"  Corniche  Road,  The "   (La   Grande 

Corniche),  8  et  seq. 
approach  to  Eze  from,  136 
at  La  Turbie,  224 
Via  Aureliana  and,  209 
Corniche  roads,  8 
Cours  Saleya  at  Nice,  17,  20 
Crdcy,  Battle  of,  168 
Cros,  Le,  pre-historic  camp  of,  259 
Cypi^res,  Rene  de,  and  Huguenots  at 

Vence,  55 


Davies,  J.  S., "  History  of  Southamp- 
ton," 121 

D'Ail,  Cap,  pre-historic  camps  at,  259 

d'Alais,  Comte,  and  capture  of  Monaco 
by  French,  179 

d'Entrevannes,  Blanche,  story  of,  44, 
45-48 

Dempster,  Miss  C.  L.  N.,  "  The  Mari- 
time Alps  and  their  Seaboard," 
by,  52,  85 

D6vote  {see  St.  Devote) 

"  Donna  Maufaccia  "  {see  Segurana) 

Doria,  Bartolomeo,  at  Monaco,  172 
murder  of  Prince  Lucien  by,  175 

Doria,  of  Genoa,  wounded  at  Cr^cy,  168 

Drap,  12 

Durandy,  "  Mon  Pays,  Villages,  etc., 
de  la  Riviera,"  by,  123,  221,  254 

Durante,    Louis,    "  Chorographie    du 
Comt6  de  Nice,"  215 
"  History  of  Nice,"  34 


Edward  III  defeats  French  at  Cr^cy, 
168 

war  between  Philip  of  Valois  and,  166 
Emmanuel  Philibert  Tower,  on  Cap  de 

St,  Hospice,  108,  110,  111 
Emmanuel   II,   Duke   of  Savoy,   and 

Chapel  of  St.  Hospice,  107 
Eze,  attack  by  French  on,  127 

attack  by  Turks  on,  127 

Bay  of,  13 

betrayal  of,  127  et  seq. 

capture  by  Turks  of,  130 

castle  of,  119,  134,  140 

ceded  to  France,  120 

church  of,  140 

earthquake  at,  134 

La  Grande  Corniche  at,  12,  13 

legend  of  the  Stream  of  Blood  and,  1 09 

Lombards  at,  118,  119 

Lords  of,  120 

Mairie  of,  140 

"  masculinity  "  of,  255 

Moors'  Gate  at,  137 

new  town  of,  134,  135  et  seq. 


307 


Index 


Eze — continued. 
Phoenicians  at,  118 
pirates  of,  attack  Southampton,  121 
plague  at,  120 

purchased  by  Carlo  Grimaldi,  122 
Romans  at,  118 
Rue  du  Brek,  140 
Saracens  at,  4,  119 
sold  to  Amadeus  of  Savoy,  120 
story  of,  118  et  seq. 
troubadours  of,  80,  123  et  seq. 
Ughetta  de  Baus'  life  in,  125 
view  of,  from  Cap  de  St.  Hospice,  112 
view  of,  from  La  Turbie — Cap  d'Ail 
Road,  135 


Falicon,  12 

Ferrando,  Lord  of  Eze,  120 

Ferrat,  Cap,  12,  104 

attack  by  Lombards  on,  107 

St.  Hospice  at,  105 
Flower  harvest  at  Grasse,  78 
Flowers,  Battle  of,  16,  17 
Fourche,  Mont,   La  Grande  Corniche 

and,  13 
Fragonard,  birthplace  of,  at  Grasse,  74 

statue  to,  at  Grasse,  73 

"  Washing  the  Disciples'  Feet,"  75 
Francois  I,  attack  on  Eze  by,  127 

meeting  between  Pope  Paul  HI  and 
Emperor  Charles  V  and,  28 

siege  of  Nice  and,  29  et  seq.,  127 
Frdron  and  Pauline  Bonaparte,  72 


Gauls,  occupation  of  Vence  by,  49 

Gaumates,  Ravin  des,  147,  148 

Gaumates,  Vallon  des,  207 

Genoa,  blockaded  by  Carlo  I,  166,  167 
Monaco  granted  to,  145,  161 
Paganini's  body  taken  to,  116 
peace  with  Carlo  I  and,  169 
stones  from  monument  at  La  Turbie 

at,  219 
Via  Aureliana  at,  208 

Genoa,  Duke  of,  capture  of  Monaco  by, 
169 


Ghibellines,  war  between  Guelphs  and, 

5,  155,  161,  214,  218,  282 
Gibraltar,  Carlo  I  attacks  Moors  at,  168 
Godeau,  Bishop,  death  of,  52-3 
Gorbio,  description  of,  297,  298 

old  castle  of,  300 
Gorbio,    Lord    of    {see    "  Bastard    of 

Gorbio  ") 
Gorges  du  Loup,  Les,  13 
Goths,  invasion  of  Riviera  by,  3 
Gourdon,  Marquis  de,  mansion  of,  at 

Grasse,  74 
Grammont,  Charlotte   de,    House    of, 
at  Monaco,  158 

founds  convent  at  Monaco,  158 
Grasse,  history  of,  67  et  seq. 

Avenue  Maximin  Isnard,  71 

Bellaudi^re  memorial  tablet  at,  75 

Boulevard  de  Jeu  de  Ballon,  71,  72 

Boulevard  Fragonard,  74 

Cabris  House  in,  71,  87 

church  of,  74,  75 

Cours,  the,  70,  71,  73 

flower  harvest  at,  77 

Fragonard  statue  at,  73 

Fragonard's  birthplace,  74 

House    of   Marquis    de    Villeneuve- 
Bargemon  at,  74 

Mirabeau  at,  89,  90,  91 

old  town  of,  70  et  seq. 

Passage  Mirabeau,  71,  72 

Place  aux  Aires,  76,  84 

Place  du  March6,  74 

Place  Neuve,  70,  71 

Pontev^s,  Hotel  de,  72,  73 

Porte  de  Cours,  71 

Porte  de  la  Roque,  71 

Porte  Neuve,  71 

Queen  Jeanne's  Palace  at,  77 

reliquary  of  St.  Honorat  at,  75 

Revolutionary  Tribunal  at,  72 

Roberta's  house  at,  76 

Robespierre  at,  73 

Rue  de  I'Evfich^,  77 

Rue  de  I'Oratoire,  76 

Rue  des  Cordeliers,  71 

Rue  Droite,  76 

Rue  du  Cours,  71,  72,  76,  87 

Rue  Tracastel,  74 

Rue  Mougins-Roquefort,  77 

Rue  R6ve  Vieille,  77 


308 


Index 


Qrasse — continued. 
Rue  Sans  Peur,  77 
siege  of,  67,  68,  69 
soap  and  scent  factories  at,  77 
Tour  du  Puy  at,  75 
"  Grasse  and  its  Vicinity,"  by  Walter 

J.  Kaye,  65,  68,  69,  73,  75,  77 
"  Great  Schism  of  the  West,"  87 
Greeks  at  Monaco,  144 
Grignan,  Comte  de,  and  siege  of  Nice, 

30,  31 
Grimaldi,    Augustin,    restores   Roque- 

brune  Castle,  255 
Grimaldi,  Bishop,  and  Huguenots  at 

Vence,  54 
Grimaldi,  Carlo  {see  Carlo  I) 
Grimaldi,  Francis,  capture  of  Monaco 

by,  161  et  seq. 
death  of,  164 
Grimaldi,  Gibellino,  defeats  the  Sara- 
cens, 4 
Grimaldi,  Lambert,  marriage  of,  with 

Princess     Claudine     of     Monaco, 

171-2 
Grimaldi,  Nicolas,  Lord  of  Antibes,  172 
Grimaldi,  the,  war  between  the  Spinola 

and,  for  Monaco,  161,  164,  165 
and  Gorbio,  300 
Grimaldo,  Benoit  (Oliva),  and  siege  of 

Nice,  33 
Gros,  Mont,  La  Grande  Corniche  and, 

12 
Guelphs,  war  between  Ghibellines  and, 

5,  155,  161,  214,  218,  282 


H 

Hare,  Augustus  J.,  "  The  Rivieras," 

by,  52,  146,  232,  266,  269 
Henry  VI,  Emperor,  grants  Monaco  to 

Genoa,  145 
Hercules,  Prince,  of  Monaco,  and  Spain, 

176 
murder  of,  176 
"  Histoire  Litt^raire  de  la  France,"  123 
"  Historical    Particulars    Relative    to 

Southampton,"   by   John   Ballar, 

121 
"  History  of  Nice,"  by  Durante,  34 
"History  of  Provence,"  Nostredame,  34 


"  History    of    Southampton,"    J.    S. 

Davies,  121 
Honor6    V,    Prince    of    Monaco,    and 

Gardens  of  St.  Martin  at  Monaco, 

159 
Honorius  I,  of  Monaco,  and  Spanish 

protection,  176 
Honorius  H,  palace  of,  at  Mentone,  271 
Honorius    HI,  wedding   ceremony  of, 

181  et  seq. 
Horn,    Mr.      Galbraith,     secretary    of 

Monte  Carlo  Golf  Club,  204 
Huguenots  in  Vence,  54-58 


I 

Innocent  II,  Pope,  and  Chapel  of  St. 

Hospice,  107 
"  Istoria  della  citta  de  Sospello,"  by 

S.  Alberti,  287 
Italy,    coast    of,    view    of,    from    La 

Grande  Corniche,  13 


Jayme  II,  of  Majorca,  Carlo  I  and,  168 
Jean,  Prince,  of  Monaco,  murder  of,  172 
Jeanne,  Queen,  death  of,  87 

palace  of,  at  Grasse,  77 

story  of,  84-87 
Justicier,    Mont,  Chapel  of  St.   Roch 
at,  263 

gallows  at,  261 

quarry  at,  261 

Via  Aureliana  at,  209 


Kaye,  Walter  J.,  "  Grasse  and  its 
Vicinity,"  by,  63,  68,  69,  73,  75,  77 

Knights  Templars,  "  The  Great  Ship  " 
of,  114 


L'Abegilo,  prehistoric  camp  of,  259 
"  La    Chorographie    et    I'Histoire    de 

Provence,"  by  Honor6  Bouche,  51 
"  La  Province  des  Alpes  Maritimes '' 

(Bosio),  21,  22,  254,  262 


309 


Index 


La  Trinity- Victor,  Roman  station  at 

12,  36,  209 
La  Turbie,  attempted  betraj'al  of,  133 

Bakehouse  Street,  225 

Belvedere  at,  215 

Bordina  patli  to,  207 

Cemetery  road  to,  207 

Church  of,  230 

Corniche  Road  at,  13,  224 

Cours  St.  Bernard,  225 

description  of,  224  et  seq. 

history  of,  214  et  seq. 

hotel  at,  206 

Hotel  de  Ville  of,  226 

La  Grande  Corniche  at,  13,  224 

La  Portette,  228 

Lazare's  house  at,  229 

Moneghetti,  path  to,  207 

Place  Mitto,  227 

Place  St.  Jean,  226 

Portail  de  Nice,  209,  225 

Portail  du  Recinto,  226,  227,  228 

Portail  Romain,  209,  225 

railway  to,  204 

Roman  gate  at,  209,  225 

Roman  monument  at,  2,  144,  147, 
214  el  seq.,  227 

Roman  town  at,  208,  209,  213 

Rue  Capouanne,  228 

Rue  de  Ghetto,  229 

Rue  de  I'Eglise,  230 

Rue  Droite,  225 

Rue  du    Four    (Bakehouse   Street), 
225 

Rue  IncalBt,  230 

St.  Michael's  Church,  30 

Saracens  at,  4 

secures  local  independence,  229 

seen  from  Monte  Carlo,  206 

Via  Aureliana  at,  209 

view  of,  from  Cap  de  St.  Hospice, 
112 
"  La  Turbie  et  son  Trophic  Romain," 
by  M.  PhiUppe  Casimir,  226,  228, 
229,  230 
Laghet,  Convent  of,  229,  231  et  seq. 

fountain  at,  232 

Madonna  of,  229,  231 

miracles  at,  233 

monastery   at,    233 ;     ex-voto    pic- 
tures at,  234,  238 


Laghet — continued. 
pilgrimage  to,  from  Sospel,  288 
Roman  road  at,  12,  36,  209,  260 
Lascaris,  Guglielmo,  purchases  Roque- 

brune,  254 
Lascaris,  the,  and  Gorbio,  301 
and  Huguenots  at  Vence,  54 
and  Roquebrune,  243 
castle  of,  at  Roquebrune,  243 
Lascaris,  Theodore,  palace  of,  at  Nice, 

25,  26 
Lazare,  Denis,  house  of,  at  La  Turbie, 

229 
Le  Sueil,  13 
"  Le  Vieux  Monaco,"  by  Urbain  Bosio, 

154,  155,  157,  158 
"Legendes   et    Contes  de  Provence," 

by  Martrin-Donos,  43 
"  Les  Mirabeau,"  by  L.  de  Lomenie,  88 
Lesdigui^res,  leader  of  Huguenot  army, 
57 
before  Vence,  58 
"  Life  of  Mirabeau,"  by  S.  G.  Tallen- 

tyre,  88 
Ligurian  coast,  the,  Grimaldi  and,  4,  5 
Ligurians,  defeat  of,  by  Phocseans,  20 
defeat    of    Lombards    by,    at    Cap 

Ferrat,  107 
in  Riviera,  1,  2 
Lombards,  and  St.  Hospice,  105-107 
at  Eze,  118,  119 
at  La  Turbie,  214,  218 
at  Roquebrune,  252 
attack  on  Cap  Ferrat  by,  107 
invasion  of  Riviera  by,  3 
occupation  of  Vence  by,  49 
Lomenie,    L.    de,    "  Les    Mirabeau," 

88 
Louis  Xni  confers  Duchy  of  Valen- 

tinois  on  Prince  of  Monaco,  180 
Louis  XIV  and  Monaco,  153 
Louis  Joseph,  Prince  of  Cond6,  mar- 
riage with  Princess  Maria  Caterina, 
186 
Loveland,  John  D.,  "  The  Romance  of 

Nice  "  (footnote),  26,  115 
Lucien,  Prince,  of  Monaco,  and  Barto- 
lomeo  Doria,  172 
defeats  Genoese,  172 
murder  of,  by  Doria,  175 
murder  of  his  brother  by,  172 


310 


Index 


M 

Macaron,  Mont,  13 
MacGibbon,    "  Architecture    of    Pro- 
vence," 100 
Marignane,     Mdlle.,     marriage     with 

Mirabeau,  89 
Maritime  Alps,  204,  269 
Marseilles,  Chemin  de  la  Corniche  at,  8 

Duke  of  Savoy  marches  on,  57 
Martin,  Cap,  seen  from  Roquebrune, 
243 

view  of,  from  La  Grande  Corniche,  13 
Martrin-Donos,  "  Legendes  et  Contes 

de  Provence,"  43 
Massena,    General,   monument   to,   at 

the  Col  des  Quatre  Chemins,  12 
Mentone,  Baouss6-Rousse,  the,  273 

birthplace  of  General  Brea  at,  270 

Carlo  Trenca's  house  at,  270 

description  of,  265  et  seq. 

East  Bay,  265,  268,  269,  270 

fort  at,  272 

Napoleon  I  at,  269 

old  town  of,  267,  269 

Palace    of    Princes   of    Monaco   at, 
271 

Place  du  Cap,  269 

Pope  Pius  VII  at,  270 

road  to,  from  La  Grande  Corniche,  13 

Rue  de  la  Cote,  271 

Rue  des  Logettes,  269 

Rue  du  Bastion,  269 

Rue  du  Br6a,  267 

Rue  du  Vieux  Chateau,  271 

Rue  Lampedouze,  271 

Rue  Longue,  209,  270,  271 

Rue  St.  Michel,  270 

Ruelle  Giapetta,  269 

Saracens  at,  4 

St.  Julien  Gate,  271 

St.  Michael's  Church,  269,  272 

Via  Aureliana  at,  209 

Villas  at,  266 

West  Bay,  265,  268,  269,  270 
"  Mentone,"  by  Dr.  George  Muller,  208, 

254,  268,  272,  287,  300 
Merlanson  Valley,  281 
Merovingian  carvings  at  Vence,  62 
M6tivier,     Henri,    "  Monaco     et    ses 
Princes,"  149,  164,  171 

31 


Millin,    A.    L.,    "  Voyages    dans    les 

D6partements     du     Midi     de    la 

France,"  51 
Mirabeau  at  Grasse,  89,  90,  91 

elopement    of,    with    Madame    de 

Monnier,  94,  95 
imprisonment  in  Chateau  d'lf,  91 
marriage  of,  with  Mdlle.  Marignane, 

89 
Mirabeau,  Marquis  de,  88,  92 
Mirabeau,  Rongelime  (see  Cabris,  Louise 

de) 
Mistral,  at  Monaco,  156 
"  Mon    Pays,    Villages,    etc.,    de    la 

Riviera,"  by  Durandy,  123,  221, 

254 
Monaco,  Avenue  de  la  Porte  Neuve, 

152 
Boulevard  de  la  Condamine,  2,  146 
captured  by  Duke  of  Genoa,  169 
captured  by  Francis  Grimaldi,  161 

et  seq. 
captured  by  French,  178,  179 
Carlo  I  and,  166 
Catalan  attack  on,  166 
Chapel    of    St.   Devote,    148,    149, 

162, 193 
Chapel  of  St.  Mary  at,  144 
Convent  of  the  Visitation  at,  158 
Etablissement  des  Bains  de  Mer,  146 
fateful  Christmas  Eve  at,  161  et  seq. 
Gardens  of  St.  Martin  at,  159 
Genoese  attack  on,  172 
Genoese  fort  at,  145 
Giardinetto  of,  158 
Grammont,  Charlotte  de,  house  of, 

at,  158 
Great  Casemate  at,  159 
harbour  of,  143  et  seq. 
history  of,  143  et  seq. 
Honorius  III,  wedding  ceremony  of, 

at,  181 
Hotel  du  Gouvernement  at,  158 
House  of  the  Governor  at,  155 
Lucien  murder  at,  170  et  seq. 
Madonna  of  Mount  Carmel  at,  158 
Mairie  at,  158 
Maison  Commune,  157 
"  masculinity  of,"  255 
Mint  at,  158 
mistral  at,  156 

I 


Index 


Monaco — continued, 
museums  at,  157,  159,  275 
old  church  at,  157 
old  fort  at,  159,  161 
palace  at,  152,  153,  154,  155 
Palace  of,  at  Mentone,  271 
Place  de  la  Visitation  at,  158 
pre-historic  skeletons  in  museum  at, 

275 
Prince  of,  as  man  of  science,  157 
indemnity  from  France  to,  254 
Promenade  Ste.  Barbe,  156 
Rampe  Major,  at,  151,  152 
Ravin  des  Gaumates,  147,  148 
Rocli  of,  151  et  seq. 
Rue  des  Briques,  156,  158 
Rue  des  Carmes,  158 
Rue  du  Milieu,  156 
St.  Nicolas  Church  at,  157,  161 
seen  from  Monte  Carlo,  189,  193 
Spanish  dominion  of,  176  et  seq. 
Spinola  and  Grimaldi  at,  161  et  seq, 
view  of,  from  La  Grande  Corniche,13 
"  Monaco  et  ses   Princes,"   by  Henri 

Metivier,  149,  164,  171 
Monnier,  Madame  de,  elopement  with 

Mirabeau,  of,  94,  95 
Monte  Carlo,  "  atmosphere  "  of,  195 
Casino  at,  156,  190,  191,  192,  194, 

196,  197 
description  of,  191  et  seq, 
diversions  of,  195  et  seq. 
Dog  Show  at,  200 
false  impressions  of,  187,  188 
gambUng  at,  196-198 
golf  at,  201-205 
mountains  round,  206 
origin  of  name  of,  191 
pigeon  shooting  at,  198 
pre-historic  camps  round,  2 
rack-and-pinion  railway  from,  207 
Roman  monument  at,  194 
seen  from  La  Turbie,  216,  224 
terrace  of,  194 
theatre  at,  199 

view  of,  from  La  Grande  Corniche,  13 
Montfort,   Count  of  (see  Odinet,  An- 
drea) 
Montmajour,  Abbey  of,  St.  Trophime's 

cell  in,  52 
Moors  (see  Saracens) 


Mossen,  Gianfret  and  Marcellino,  cap- 
ture of  Gaspard  de  CaYs  by, 
133 

Mules,  Mont  des,  pre-historic  camp 
at,  259 

Muller,  Dr.  George,  "  Mentone,"  208, 
254,  268,  272,  287,  300 


N 

Napoleon  I.  and  his  sister.  Princess 
Pauline,  73 

at  Mentone,  269 

builds  La  Grande  Corniche,  9 
Napoleon  Illpresents  copy  of  Raphael's 
"St.    Michael"    to     La    Turbie, 
226 
Nicaea,  Phocsean  city  of,  20 
Nice,  annexed  by  France,  21 

Barbary  pirates  and,  20 

Bellanda  Tower  at,  23 

Boulevard  du  Pont  Vieux,  22 

captured  by  Counts  of  Provence,  20 

carnival  at,  16,  17 

Castle  Hill  at,  12,  19,  21,  22,  23,  25, 
28,  32,  33,  35,  41 

Cathedral  of  St.  R^parate,  27 

Charles     of    Anjou     builds     Naval 
Arsenal  at,  20 

Cours  Saleya,  17,  20 

Croix  de  Marbre,  28 

Dukes  of  Saxony  and,  20 

French  sieges  of,  5,  20,  21,  29  et  seq. 

High  Town  of,  21 

Jet^e-Promenade,  15 

La  Grande  Corniche  and,  9,  12 

Lascaris  Palace  in  Rue  Droite,  25,  26 

Low  Town  of,  21,  22 

Malavicina  Tower  at,  23 

Nicode  de  Menthon  and  defences  of, 
21 

Old  Town  of,  19  et  seq, 

Paganini's  house  at,  25,  115 

Palrohera  Bastion  at,  22,  31 

Pairoliera  Gate,  22 

Place  Garibaldi,  22 

Place  Victor,  22 

Pont  Vieux,  28 

Porte  de  la  Marine,  22 

Porte  St.  Antoine,  22,  23 


312 


Index 


Nice — continued. 

Porte  St.  Eloi,  22 

Promenade  des  Anglais,  14  el  seq. 

Quai  St.  Jean  Baptiste,  23 

Rue  Centrale,  27 

Rue  de  la  Prefecture  (No.  20),  25 

Rue  de  la  Terrasse,  22 

Rue  Droite,  23,  24,  25,  27 

Rue  du  Malonat,  25 

Rue  Pairoliere,  22 

Rue  Sincaire,  22 

sacking  of,  by  Saracens,  20 

Sainte  Croix,  Convent  of,  28 

sieges  of,  5,  20,  21,  28,  29,  et  seq.,  127 

Sincaire  Bastion  at,  22 

stones  from  La  Turbie  in  Cathedral 
at,  219 

Town  Hall  of,  27 
Nicode  de  Menthon,  and  defences  of 

Nice,  21 
Nostredame's  "History  of  Provence," 
34 


Odinet,  Andrea  (Count  of  Montfort), 

and  siege  of  Nice,  31 
"  Old  Provence,"  by  T.  A.  Cook,  180, 

262 
Oliva  (see  Grimaldo,  Benoit) 


Pacanaglia,  Mont,  La  Grande  Corn- 

iche  at,  13 
Paganini,  Achillino,  116 
Paganini,  body  of,  taken  to  Genoa  and 
Cannes,  116 

burial  of,  at  Parma,  116 

buried  at  Cap  de  St.  Hospice,  116 

buried  on  Sainte  Ferr^ol,  116 

death  of,  114 

embalmment  of,  117 

exhumation  of,  117 

house  of,  at  Nice,  25 

wanderings  after  death  of,  25  (foot- 
note) 
Paillon  River,  12,  21,  22,  39 
Paillon  Valley,  12 

Palaeolithic  remains  at  Mentone,  273 
Parma,  burial  of  Paganini  at,  116,  117 


Paul     III,     Pope,     meeting     between 
Francois  I,  Emperor  Charles  V,  28 
Peille,  12 

Philibert      Emmanuel,      fortifications 
erected   by,   at   Villefranche   and 
Mt.  Alban,  113 
tower  of,  at  Cap  de  St.  Hospice,  108 
110,  111 
Philip  of  Valois,  war  between  Edward 

HI  and,  166 
Phoenicians  at  Eze,  118 
at  Monaco,  144 
at  Roquebrune,  252 
in  Riviera,  1 

occupation  of  Vence,  by,  49 
Phocaeans  in  Riviera,  2 
occupation  of  Vence  by,  49 
reputed  foundation  of  Nice  bj%  19,  20 
Pierre  IV  of  Aragon,  and  Carlo  I,  168 
Pisa,  Via  Aureliana  at,  208 
Pisani,  Bishop,  last  Bishop  of  Vence,  53 
Pius  Vn,  Pope,  at  Mentone,  270 
Pointe  de  Cabuel,  13 
Pointe  de  la  Vieille,  13 
Pontev^s,  Hotel  de,  at  Grasse,  72,  73 
"  Precis   de   I'Histoire   de  Provence," 

Terrin,  68 
Pre-historic  men,  remains  of,  at  Monte 

Carlo,  194 
Provence  and  Mentone,  268 

conflicts  of,  with  rulers  of  Northern 

Italy,  5 
Counts  of,  capture  of  Nice  by,  20 
La  Turbie  and,  215 
Provence,  Saracens  in,  4 


Redbeard  (see  Barbarossa) 
Red  Cliff,  the  (see  Baouss6-Rousse) 
Ren6,  King,  death  of,  61 
Reynouard,  "  Choix  des  Podsies  orig. 

des  Troubadours,"  123 
Ricard,  Le,  pre-historic  camp  at,  259 
Ricotti,  "  Storia  della  Monarchia  Pie- 

montese,"  34 
"  Riviera,"  by  S.  Baring-Gould,  34 
Riviera,  early  history  of,  1  et  seq. 
Roberti,  Doria  de,  house  of,  at  Grasse, 

76 
Robespierre  at  Grasse,  73 


313 


Index 


Rochers  Rouges,  Via  Aureliana  at,  209 
Rocomare,  M.,  account  by,  of  siege  of 

Grasse,  68-9 
Romano-Byzantine  carvings  at  Vence, 

62 
Romans  at  Castillon,  282 

at  Eze,  118 

at  Monaco,  143,  144 

at  Roquebrune,  252 

at  Sospel,  286 

foundation  of  Cimiez  by,  20 

foundation  of  Vence  by,  49 

in  Riviera,  2 

milestones  of,  260 

remains  of,  at  Grasse,  75 
Roquebrune,    "  Cabb6    Roquebrune," 
meaning  of,  254 

Castle  of  the  Lascaris  at,  243 

church  at,  242 

description  of,  239  et  seq. 

"  femininity  "  of,  255 

history  of,  252  et  seq. 

legend  of,  248  et  seq. 

Place  des  Fr^res  at,  242,  244,  245, 
249,  250,  257 

Rue  Mongollet,  242 

Rue  Pi6,  241,  246 

view  of,  from  La  Grande  Corniche,  13 
Rose,  E.  W.,  "  Cathedrals  and  Clois- 
ters of  the  South  of  France,"  50 
Rostagno,  Lord  of  Eze,  120 


St.  Agnes,  Church  of,  302 

description  of  town  of,  301,  303 

legend  of,  303 

Saracens  at,  4 
St.  Agnes,  hill  of,  269 
St.  Andre,  12 

St.  Auspicius  (see  St.  Hospice) 
Sainte  Bar  be,  Chapel  of,  at  Monaco,  156 
St.  Bernard    Chapel  of,  at  La  Turbie, 

225 
St.  Clare,  bust  of,  at  St.  Paul  du  Var, 

103 
St.  Devote,  Chapel  of,  at  Monaco,  148 
149,  162,  193 

legend  of,  148,  149 
St.  Eusebius,  first  Bishop  of  Vence  62 


Sainte    Ferrdol,    Island    of,   burial    of 

Paganini  on,  116 
St.  George,  relics  of,  at  St.  Paul  du 

Var,  103 
St.  Honorat,  reliquary  of,  at  Grasse,  75 

story  of  Tiburge  and,  222,  223 
St.  Hospice,  as  miracle-worker,  106 
as  prophet,  105 
death  of,  107 
landing  of,  on  Cap  de  St.  Hospice, 

105 
Lombards  and,  105-107 
Memorial  Chapel  of,  107,  114,  115 
St.  Hospice,  Cap  de,  12,  104 
Emmanuel  Philibert  Tower  on,  108, 

110,  111 
first  Christian  settlement  at,  105 
Knights  of  St.  John  at,  108 
"  Legend  of  the  Stream  of  Blood  " 

and,  108,  109 
Paganini  buried  at,  115 
Saracen  fortress  on,  108 
St.  Hospice,  Monastery  of,  112 
St.    Jean,    Chapel   of,  at   La  Turbie, 

226 
St.    Jean    (town    of),    description    of, 
109-110 
legend  of,  108 
St.  Jeannet,  view  of,  from  La  Grande 

Corniche,  13 
St.  Jeannet,  Baou  de,  as  landmark,  13 
St.  John,  Knights  of,  at  Cap  de  St. 

Hospice,  109 
St.  Lambert,  tomb  of,  Vence  Cathe- 
dral, 52 
St.  Laurent  Valley,  pre-historic  camp 

in,  259 
St.  Mary,  Chapel  of,  at  Monaco,  144 
St.  Paul  du  Var,  97 

Bishop  of  Vence  takes  refuge  at,  56 
Church  of,  103 
description  of,  101  et  seq. 
relics  of  St.  George  at,  103 
St.  Pons,  12 
Abbey  of,  39 
Charlemagne  at   40 
convent  at,  40  ;    story  of,  41  et  seq. 
St.  Roch,  Chapel  of,  at  Mont  Justicier 

263 
St.  Theobald  of  Mondovi,  294 
St.  Tropez,  13 


314 


Index 


St.  Trophime,  burial-place  of,  at  Aries, 
51 

cell  of,  in  Montmajour  Abbey,  52 
St.  Veran,  tomb  of,  Vence  Cathedral, 

52,  63 
Saracens,  at  Eze,  119 

at  La  Turbie,  214,  218 

at  Monaco,  144 

at  Roquebrune,  252,  253 

Castillon  captured  by,  283 

defeat  of,  4 

fortress  of,  on  Cap  St.  Hospice,  108 

invasion  of  Riviera  by,  4 

occupation  of  Vence  by,  49 

sacking  of  Nice  by,  49 
Savoy  annexed  by  France,  21 
Savoy,  Dukes  of,  and  Nice,  20 

invasion  of  Riviera  by,  57 
Segurana  ("  Donna   Maufaccia  ")  and 

siege  of  Nice,  30,  34,  35 
Sisteron,  description  of,  92,  93 

Rongelime  de  Mirabeau  at  Convent 
of,  92 

ruins  of  convent  of,  93,  94 
Sospel,  281 

Bishopric  of,  287 

bridges  at,  289 

Church  of,  292 

description  of,  286  et  seq. 

fair  at,  287 

fire  at,  287 

Piazza  di  San  Michele,  287 

pilgrimage  to  Laghet  from,  288 

Place  St.  Michel,  292 

plague  at,  287,  288 

river  front  of,  291 

Rue  de  la  R6pubUque,  290 

Rue  du  Chateau,  291 

Rue  Pellegrini,  291 

Rue  St.  Pierre,  292 

wild  boar  and,  294  et  seq. 
Southampton,   attack   on,   by   pirates 

from  Eze,  121 
Spain,  Domination  of  Monaco  by,  176  et 
seq. 

Saracens  in,  4 
Spezia,  Via  Aureliana  at,  208 
Spinola,     Lucinetta,     marriage    with 

Carlo  I,  165 
Spinola,  the,  war  between  the  Grim- 
aldi  and,  for  Monaco,  161,  164 

3 


"  Storia  della  Monarchia  Piemontese." 

Ricotti,  34 
Stowe,    John,    account    of    attack    on 

Southampton  by,  121 
"Annals,"  121 
Surian,  Bishop,  story  of,  53 
Swabians,  invasion  of  Riviera  by,  3 


Tallentyre,  S.  G.,  "  Life  of  Mira- 
beau," 88 

Taurobolium,  ceremony  of,  51,  62 

Terrasses  at  Nice,  18 

Terrin,  "  Precis  de  I'Histoire  de  Pro- 
vence," 68 

Tete  de  Chien,  13,  112,  194,  209,  263 

"  The  Maritime  Alps  and  their  Sea- 
board," by  Miss  C.  L.  U.  Demp- 
ster, 52,  85 

"  The  Riviera,"  120 

"  The  Rivieras,','  by  Augustus  J,  Hare, 
52,  146,  232,  266,  269 

"  The  Romance  of  Nice,"  by  John  D. 
Loveland,  26,  115  (footnotes) 

"  The  Vence  Handbook,"  61,  62,  63,  64 

Tiburge,  wife  of  Count  Aymes,  story  of, 
221-223 

Treets,  Raimbaud  de,  story  of,  44-48 

Trenca,  Chevalier  Carlo,  and  Mentone, 
268,  270 

Turbia,  Roman  town  of,  208  (see  La 
Turbie) 

Turks,  attack  on  Eze  by,  127 
sacking  of  Roquebrune,  254 


U 

Ughetta  de  Baus,  wife  of  Blacas,  125 


Valentinois,  Duchy  of,  conferred  on 
Prince  of  Monaco,  180 

Valerianus,  Lucius  Veludius,  com- 
memorative inscription  to,  at 
Vence,  50,  51,  62 

Vandals,  invasion  of  Riviera  by,  3 

Vence,  as  Defender  of  the  Faith,  49 
et  seq. 


15 


Index 


Vence — continued. 

Bishop  Godeau  of,  52,  53 

bishopric  founded  at,  52 

Black  Death  at,  56 

Boulevard  Marcelin-Maurel,  60,  61 

Church  of,  61    62 

converted  to  Christianity,  51 

description  of,  59  et  seq. 

East  Gate  of,  60 

history  of,  49  et  seq. 

Huguenots  in,  54-58 

Merovingian  carvings  at,  62 

old  town  of,  65 

Place  du  Peyra  at,  61 

Place  Godeau,  64 

Place  Wilson,  61 

Portail  du  Peyra,  61 

Portail  Levis  at,  61 

Roman  inscriptions  at,  50,  51,  62 

Romans  at,  49,  50 

Rue  de  la  Coste,  61 

St.  Eusebius,  first  Bishop  of,  62 

siege  of,  by  Lesdigui^res,  58 

Signadour  Gate  at,  60 

tomb  of  St.  Veran  at,  63 

tombs  of  bishops  in  Cathedral  of,  52 

tombs  of  Villeneuves  at,  63 

view  of,  from  La  Grande  Corniche,  13 

Villeneuves  and,  53,  63 

watch  tower  of,  65 
"  Vence,"  by  J.  D.,  61 
Ventimiglia  and  Mentone,  268 
Ventimiglia,  Counts  of,  254,  256,  283, 
301 

Via  Aureliana  at,  208 
Ventium  (Vence),  Roman  station  of,  49 
Vento,  the,  and  Mentone,  268 

Roquebrune  sold  to,  254 


Via  Aureliana,   as  frontier  boundary 
between  Italy  and  Gaul,  209 
highest  point  of,  209 
milestones  on,  260 
route  of,  36,  194,  208,  279 
Vibia,  commemorative  inscription  to, 

at  Vence,  50,  51,  62 
Victor  Amadeus    III   of  Sardinia,   22 

(footnote) 
Victor  Am6d6e  paj^s  homage  to  "  Our 

Lady  of  Laghet,"  233 
Villars,  Mar6chal  de,  and  monument  at 

La  Turbie,  219 
ViUefranche,  112,  113 
citadel  of,  113 
Paganini  and,  114 

"  The  Great  Ship  "  launched  at,  114 
Villeneuve,   Rom^e   de,    story   of,   80 

et  seq. 
Villeneuve-Bargemon,      Marquis      de. 

House  of,  at  Grasse,  74 
Villeneuve-Loubet,  Lords  of,  53 
Villeneuve-Monans,    Baron     de,    and 

Louise  de  Cabris,  90 
Villeneuves,  the,  and  Vence,  53,  54 

tombs  of,  at  Vence,  63 
Vinaigrier,  Mont,  La  Grande  Corniche 

and,  12 
Viteola,  Guglielmo,  story  of  wild  boar 

and,  294  et  seq. 
"  Voyages  dans  les  D6partements  du 
Midi    de   la    France,"    by    A.    L. 
Millin,  51 


W 

William  of  Marseilles,  Count  of  Pro- 
vence, defeats  the  Saracens,  4 


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